I hate it every night when Andrew leaves.
Hate it Hate it Hate it Hate it Hate Hate it.
Maybe that sounds childish. But really. I hate it. And when he leaves, I pout. I don't mean to. It just happens. And then I keep pouting until he is out the door. And then for a few more minutes until he sends me a text message. It is a sad experience we replay every night starting at 11:45 or 11:50 and ending at about 12:15 or 12:25. It's a cycle that will never end- except for when he's in Europe and I'm in Missouri- until 88 days from now and then it will never happen again. At least not in the exact same way.
