HOTELS ARE THE OPPOSITE of homes. Especially my home. They're unusually quiet, unsettlingly generic, and inhumanly convenient.
My home, with Peaches and the kids, it's loud, colorful, messy, and inconvenient to a fault.
But I love it.
I miss it.
Three days have passed since the blowout. Glaring pain blinds me at night, the absence of the warm soft body, of Peaches and Mischief filling my senses too much to sleep.
The essence of my life now consists of building my son's dream building, and wishing, praying to any deity that would listen, that my fiancée would come back to me.
Hoping she loves me half at much at I love her. Missing my daughter's giggles, my son's rapid fire questioning about architecture. My wife's sweet snores, her soft moans, tantalizing scent.
The lack of life is t
