She missed waking up next to him the most. Cocooned in a warm pocket under the duvet, limbs tangled, drool on the pillow. They'd occupied that in-between place, where you're left with only fleeting images of dreams but have yet to remember the plates in the sink or the report due at work. It was that small space of time she missed, the moments before he had rolled over and whispered, "Fancy a quick one?" in her ear, or rolled the other way and got out of bed to slip on his jeans, or she threw back the covers to let the shock of cold air wake her.
It wasn't that she hadn't enjoyed the quickies, the way she felt hurrying into the office a little late, a smile tugging at her lips. The comfortable silence as she watched him dress, shooting a smile over his shoulder as he walked out the door, well, she had liked that, too. Even his protests on those mornings she had shucked the duvet were familiar, and therefore missed.
She didn't know why she missed the waking up the most, although she imagined it had something to do with that pang she felt each morning when she moved her arm and found the other side of the bed was empty.
***
Sometimes you just have to write something clichéd.
Friday, January 8, 2010
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