Tonight my love leaves.
But yesterday he went grocery shopping so I won't have to while he's gone. He even remembered to get plastic ziploc bags.

I cannot tell you how much I appreciate it when S goes shopping. He learned how to shop, and how to cook, from his mom, who raised three kids on a cowboy's wages on a cattle ranch in Montana, and then in the gov'ment housing projects in Greenville, South Carolina during the recession in the 1970s.
S pinches pennies to the last.
"Frugal" doesn't even describe it.

Me, I am a terrible shopper. I'll go with the intention of getting toilet paper and bread and lunchmeat and come away with pine nuts, avocados, and deoderant, and halfway home I recall the original purpose and have to turn back, which is often a hassle because U-turns are illegal in Oregon.

Stores distract me; there is too much to look at. S will systematically walk down each and every aisle, and not only that but he will compare quality with quantity and determine which is the biggest bang for the buck. He tries to get each full (and I mean full) bag of groceries for five dollars and usually succeeds.

Which leaves money for nice items, especially on pay day, such as a bottle of wine and two (reduced-for-quick-sale) rib eye steaks.

He also made a banana cream pie. Gold stars on his forehead and I will miss him when he's gone. Nine days sounds like a long time.

After dinner we sat on the couch and he held me.
"I like you," he told me quietly.
"Uh-huh."
"And you're, um, curvy."
"I don't think so."
"Your skin is soft."
"That's my dress."
"No, that's you, and you smell good."
"I smell like barbequed steak."
"You're very difficult."
"Am not."
"I will miss you."
"Come home again soon."
"I promise."