10/19/2024
My phone vibrates on the kitchen counter—a photo from L.A.
She's standing on a rooftop, sunglasses perched atop her head. I tap out a reply, snapping a picture of the morning light filtering through our window.
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The coffee maker gurgles, filling the kitchen with a familiar aroma.
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I pour a cup, glance at the empty chair across from me.
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The silence is thick.
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I take a sip.
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"Good morning," I say, answering her FaceTime call. Her smile fills the screen.
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"Morning. You just wake up?" she asks, adjusting the pillow behind her.
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"Been up for a bit. Made some coffee."
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"Wish I was there to steal a sip," she laughs.
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"Me too."...knowing she doesn't really like coffee.
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We talk about little things—the weather, the conference, the squirrels in the tree outside the window.
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A car horn blares on her end...
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"City sounds," she shrugs.
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"Figured..." I grin.
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"Hey, I gotta run...time to get ready," she says, glancing at her watch. "Text you later?"
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"Always."
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The day drifts by.
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At my desk, I check my phone between client calls—no new messages.
I drive to the store; the radio plays our favorite song. I turn it up, humming along.
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Evening settles in.
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I slice a tomato for dinner, the rhythm of the knife against the cutting board echoing in the quiet kitchen. The scent of purple onion fills the air. I set two plates out by habit, pause, then put one away.
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A video comes through—a short clip of waves crashing against the Santa Monica pier. I watch it twice...feel the distant spray of saltwater.
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"Looks beautiful," I text back.
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"Not as beautiful as home," she replies with a heart emoji.
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Later, another call. She's wrapped in a hotel robe, face clean of makeup.
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"Long day?" I ask.
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"You could say that. You?"
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"Managed to burn my dinner," I admit.
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She chuckles. "Survival skills lacking without me?"
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"Apparently."
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We sit in comfortable silence for a moment, just looking at each other through the screen.
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"Three days feels like forever," she says with that show-stopping smile.
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"Agreed."
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"Well, only one more to go."
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"Counting down."
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"Sleep tight, love you," she whispers.
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"Love you too."
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The call fades, and the condo returns to stillness.
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I walk through the rooms, her touch evident in every corner—the fuzzy blanket she picked out, the lonely iPhone charger on her nightstand, the faint scent of her perfume lingering in the hall.
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I climb into bed, the sheets cool on her side. Reaching over, I rest my hand on the empty space.
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They say distance makes the heart grow fonder.
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The glow of my phone illuminates the darkness—her goodnight text waiting to be read.
