Thankfully, today is Saturday so I’ve been able to sleep in and feel quite rested. I make the bed perfectly, then remain on top of it for a long while, staring absentmindedly into the walk-in wardrobe through the open door, at the rows and rows of Eirik’s expensive shirts. Sometimes living with Eirik is like living with a ghost, one whose presence you can feel but never summon. I try to imagine him in my mind, the way he most likely is in this exact moment; intently focused on winning over a room, or an organization, or an important person sitting across from him.

He’ll be smiling and laughing, well aware of his charm, subconsciously mirroring his audience, creating a bond of trust, gesticulating in that rather excessive way of his that makes him occasionally seem more Italian than Norwegian. He chooses his words carefully and isn’t afraid of moments of silence, knowing how to use them. It makes him come across as authoritative, self-assured, measured. A leader. When Eirik and I met, fresh out of university, I was the only person who believed him when he said he’d be prime minister someday. Now everybody does. It seems to be only a matter of time.

It’s not fake, the charismatic, trustworthy persona my husband projects. He is those things. He is also the sometimes tired, reclusive, spent man who needs calm and quiet at home, who likes to fall asleep with his head held snug between my breasts while I gently tickle the hair at the nape of his neck. And he is still the eager kid I fell in love with: an idealistic, unafraid small-town young man who lights up when he speaks of change and bettering the country. I think of how intently he listened to me last night, how close he held me, and smile to myself in the gloomy room.