She checked first thing in the morning. There was nothing from him. No word from him the night before. She did not wake to his beautiful words. Though she was disappointed, she was filled with hope.
The next morning came. It was a Thursday, not yet the weekend. When she again awoke to nothing, she assumed it must have been a busy week for him. He was a very busy man who was inundated with very important things do.
The weekend, she thought. He’s simply waiting until the weekend. He’ll have so much to say to me then. He’ll have so much to share. It will be perfect, she thought.
When no word came from him Friday morning it was as though her suspicions had been confirmed. He simply must be waiting until the weekend, she thought.
He’ll make himself a cup of tea, he’ll light that special occasion cigar, and he’ll write to me, she thought. Maybe he’ll even be by the fire having thought of her all week and, he’ll write to me the way I know he can, the way he did before, she thought. He’ll squeeze every drop of passion he possesses into his gracious words. He’ll slave over every line. To me, she thought.
The silence persisted through Sunday evening. She’d heard nothing from him. It was the weekend, she thought, it was the weekend and he is a very busy man with so many things to do, so many people to do things for, and so many commitments to keep. It was wrong for her to expect him to use the only days he has free to write to her. I’m so selfish, she thought, I’m so stupid.
Monday, she thought. Monday she’ll wake up and there it will be. A full accounting of his undobetly eventful weekend. On Monday he’ll explain what has taken so long.
When she got up on Tuesday morning, she began to cry. Where did he go, she thought.