He picks you up from work and chatters all the way back home, an incessant, sometimes irritating, chatter. And when you get home and turn the tap on to find no water, you grumble, and he prances downstairs (mostly) to put the pump on. And then when you poke inside the refrigerator thinking up culinary delights, he tells you to make the simplest thing possible. And then he puts his work on hold and goes and chops the onions, without which you just couldn't cook, but which you just cannot chop with eyes open. And he talks some more and you think to yourself, will he never stop? Or you just zone out and think other things. He keeps coming back to the kitchen while you are cooking just to keep you company. And when the food is made, he oohs and aahs over it, no matter how disgusting it tastes (which isn't often). And then he cuddles you when you go to bed and you grumble, wanting to be left alone with your book. And he grumbles that you have no time for him, so you put down the book and grumble some more.
Now that he is far away (okay, okay, for like 2 weeks), but far away nevertheless, you don't feel like cooking anymore. Who'll chop the onions? And you've got to run the water yourself. And remember those times you fought over the car, threatening to buy another one the next day? Well, you wish he'd come to pick you up from work, and chatter on non stop. The short drive home's so lonely and even the usually peaceful dogs outside the house bark at you. The house is so dead. You have your book, your television, all the time in the world to watch movies or blog, but you'd rather just have him clowning around. And when you turn off the lights and the other side of the bed's cold and empty, you know you'd throw away all your books, if you just had his warm arms around you; you'd give anything for his silly childish jokes, and to kiss him, and to curl up in a ball against him and sleep a good night's sleep.
