Turning in bed used to be just turning in bed. Lifting my hips from the mattress, shifting as the sheet slipped over my body, and settling myself into a new position. Soft and cool and comfortable. And alone. For a while, alone.
I could stretch my legs as far as I wanted. Spreading myself across the span. Still accustomed to staying to one side, but gradually … ever so gradually … moving myself toward the middle of my queen-sized pillow top. Inch by inch. A bit more every night. Cuz why waste all this good bed space sleeping on one side all the time? Spread out, woman! You’ve got it all to yourself.
But when turning in bed meant turning into her, now THAT was something new. Not like the cool, comfortable mattress, but still soft and welcoming … and mine.
First for a night, then another and another … until turning in bed and not having her there became foreign. And not just foreign, but forlorn. Because there’s a difference between sliding a leg across an empty mattress and sliding a leg along hers. Pulling the blanket over cold shoulders or shifting myself into her and pulling a drowsy arm across my waist? Cotton sheets or cocoa skin, smooth and warm as running silk? Decisions, decisions.
So when I turn to reach for her and she’s not there, and I feel my heart sink a bit, I think that maybe I’m done finding myself. Maybe I can trust myself a little more. Because I’m 46 years old, and I know what I like … and being alone is fucking overrated. Plus, two grown ass women don’t have to stay on their sides. We can both sleep in the middle, across the middle, diagonally, however the hell we want. Arms and legs entangled, breathing each other’s air, heart beats matched to a tee as we dream in blissfully enchanted slumber. Such a simple thing, but a really big thing.
I think I really need to get this rest.