There've been a number of times when coming home that the sickly buttery smell of microwave popcorn greeted me before I'd even gotten my key in the lock, and that awful smell filled me with such a reactive joy because it meant that he was home. This evening when I got home, the smell was there although he was already gone for work. Just an empty house and a bag of popcorn left in the microwave.
He's going to be gone before it's even one year. I wonder who he'll spend our anniversary with.