Some days, you give up on waiting for him to come back and leave the greys for purple, the red lingerie for black lace. You change your perfume, cut your hair short, get your new heels out.
He exists in his absences too and becomes the one relative point in your life. The yardstick you measure all other men against. So you stack him up in a cardboard box and leave it in a dusty attic and get away from it all. Perfect clothes and perfect hands and perfect feet stop mattering. You walk among the world, a stranger to yourself. You sit with your non-friends in tiny living rooms and smoke a single Davidoff, then two, then five. You progressively watch them get drunk together and proceed to end the night dancing to loud loud loud music.
And on nights like that, when you leave your guard down, some charming stranger comes to you with a smile, an offer to buy you a drink and a promise to treat you better.