Ninety days.
She repeats the two words over and over in her head in the car.
Now it doesn't seem that long ago, but before, it was an eternity.
She sits in the back seat, staring out the window, shifting her weight every now and again, and tries to keep those thoughts she's thought for so long out of her mind. She knows the dampness between her thighs won't dissipate anytime soon, though, so she eventually just sits still.
His parents make idle chit chat in the front seat, and she laughs and speaks to them as well, but her mind isn't here. Her mind is with him, on the plane, and right now they're making love in the tiny bathroom again, somewhere in the troposphere.
One hundred and thirty-five days.
Three thousand, two hundred and forty hours; one hundred, ninety-four thousand and four hundred minutes; eleven million, six hundred and sixty-four thousand seconds (give or take), since they'd last made love. It had been ninety days since she'd last seen him, when she had spent their only time alone together performing oral sex on him (when he finally came for the first time that way and she had loved every second of it).
She taps her nails on her purse again. Realizing that it's once again the only noise in the car and might be annoying by now, she stops and writhes her hands together instead.
She refrains from asking, "Are we there yet?" like a child, and continues to stare out the window.