He is in a mood to fight.  A way to block the true pain.  He listens and hears nothing.  He looks for her through the house.  He cannot find her in the usual places - the dishes, the laundry or the toilet.  So he goes to the stereo and turns on his music.  Not just slightly, he blares the music.  He lets the harsh sounds of Disturbed wash over him.  "Mistress" was always a fun song.  The music so loud, that windows shake in the walls.  He does some angry air guitar licks in the living room.  His left hand moving randomly along what he imagines the neck as his right hand almost as randomly strums and wammies where he imagines strings.  The work of making these sounds convulses his body through many odd positions through the living room, including on his knees with his shoulders touching the floor behind his toes.  His stomach is toned enough still that he is able to right himself to sitting on his knees and then with a sudden jump, he is standing upright on his feet.