"waiting for the moon to come,
and light me up inside,
and I'm waiting for the telephone
to tell me I'm alive."

Daylight Fading-Counting Crows

There is no sound quite like the first long weekend alone. The weekend after someone leaves and won't be returning. Your house, your apartment, whatever, it feels different, and you are aware of things you had not noticed before.

The sounds of neighbors talking to each other (warm small talk and loud arguments you never bothered to listen to before). The sound of cars racing around a back parking lot and the noise of kids racing down a block in rollerblades

That's OK. What's bad is what you don't hear. The things you didn't know you were used to hearing, and didn't think you would miss. The comforting roar of someone else in the shower, first , on a cold day. The water in the sink and the reassuring purr of a coffee maker. The clinking of glasses in the kitchen. Clicking of heels on a hardwood floor late in the evening as keys bounce off a counter.

Coat hangers sliding back and forth across a closet (indecisive). The sounds of life. As common and boring as the thump of a newspaper against the door and the patter of rain against the roof.

The paper will still come. The rain will still pour. After a while you'll stop listening for the sounds that aren't there.

It will about the same time you stop expecting her to call.

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