I have a habit of flirting aggressively with my husband at all hours of the day. There is apparently a personal quota involved. I couldn’t tell you who established it, but if I don’t reach it, I can’t sleep. An inconvenient policy, especially when the other person has gone to bed.
This week I’m away from home for a work conference. Tonight he had an early night, and I missed the window to call him. A reasonable sequence of events. People get tired. People sleep. Unfortunately, I still have things to say to my husband, and no available husband to say them to.
I miss his laughter. His chuckles, too, which deserve their own mention because I am attached to the full range. I miss the reactions I get when I tell him, in considerable detail, what I have in mind for him. Flirting is enjoyable on its own, but his response is a substantial part of the entertainment.
Then there are the things a phone call wouldn’t fix anyway. His smell. His kisses. The sound of his heartbeat. The ordinary comfort of being close enough to notice all of it without needing to arrange a convenient time.
Also, the eggs he sometimes makes me. I feel these belong in the same declaration. Love can accommodate both profound tenderness and an appreciation for breakfast. I contain multitudes, some of them hungry.
And his funky little hip wiggle. I miss that ridiculous movement with a sincerity that is difficult to explain while maintaining any dignity. Fortunately, dignity has never been essential to my flirting strategy.
So here I am, away for work, unable to sleep because the person I most want to bother is sensibly unconscious. I love him. I miss him. I would particularly enjoy making him laugh right now.
In the morning, I plan to drown him in verbal affection. He has had an early night. With any luck, he’ll be well rested.
