He thought she was going to the toilet.
"I love you. I go toilet." That sexy word-dropping accent of hers. He loved it. Those words gave him expectation; he knew the routine. He lay on the bed in anticipation.
As he waited, he realised it had been the front door not the bathroom door that had opened and shut. He realised her suitcases had not been moved to the hallway because she was tidying, but had been packed and left waiting for departure, departure from the routine. Clearing out, not clearing up.
Leaving, not loving. He realised he had misheard and his wait would be long and unfulfilled. He realised he had not paid attention, had not listened, had not understood beyond the word dropping, had not loved beyond the sexy.
"I leave you. I go Thailand." The accent had been one of imminent departure and long-time regret.