The holiday is now just a memory

You are half-awake. Sleep has been comfortable, and those muscles in your shoulder that were cramped during the flight are now relaxed. You reach over for the familiar arm on the other side and then remember he's not there, because you're now here. You open one eye to check, just in case you made a happy mistake. You see the green lights on your clock telling you the time is now 5:00 AM.

So you roll over and, keeping your eyes closed, you try to recall the past week. Passing out in the car on the way home from dinner because of jet-lag; a whirlwind trip to the Guggenheim where you picked up a liquorice sweet masquerading as meaningful 'sculpture'; standing in front of the white marble Greek gods in the light-filled hall of the Metropolitan Museum; arguing with him about whether a panini would be that much better with a pickle, or without; drinking sangria in sun-drenched Union Square; the pleasant surprise of meeting Teahouseblossom in a delightful cocktail-fueled evening; chewing on calamari in a bar with him; laughing at your own confusion when you heard the weather forecast reporting 'T' storms - were they T-shaped storms? Or teastorms? Then you realised they were referring to thunderstorms; idly wondering whether if you can describe disembarking as 'de-planing', do you get 'planed' when you embark the plane?; the buttery pretzel you ate on your walk back to Central Park and how the mustard smeared all over your fingers; then you wonder, did you watch 'Troy' on Sunday or Saturday?

You pick up the phone in a blurry state of sleep-driven concentration to call him.
"Hello?"
"Hello, it's me."
"What are you doing up? It's really early."
"I know. Did we watch 'Troy' on Saturday or Sunday? I can't remember."
"We saw it on Saturday."
"I miss being there. I think I much preferred being there."
"I liked you being here better, too."