I'm sure David will enjoy this little break from what my friend Ollie calls my "incessant yapping." But I also know that, because of our nauseating addiction to each other, he will miss me. I've been hinting to David that I will be partying it up Keith Richards style. I can imagine him, lying in his hotel bed, trying to get to sleep on sheets of inferior thread count, thinking of what kind of trouble his woman is getting into, intermittently checking his cell phone for missed calls from the San Diego Police Department.
But, after my social adventures, none of which involved drugs or smokes, I will brush my teeth in the company of silence, climb into an empty bed, and fashion a body out of David's pillows, into which I will then burrow, wrapping myself in his scent, and taking as much solace as I can in such a poor substitute for the man who keeps me sane.