About to fall asleep, I reach for the other pillow, because I know he was the last person to sleep on it. It doesn't smell like cologne or his soap or sweat or sex, it just smells like him, even though he showered in my shower, with my soap, my towels, moments before hitting this pillow last night. It smells like him. I hope the smell never wears out. I am almost afraid to sleep on it, I don't want to ruin it with whatever smell I might rub off. So instead I take a deep breath, blink hard, and hope to drift to sleep without too much trouble.
Every time I hear a sound I wake up. I hope the sound is coming from the hallway. What single girl living alone hopes for people in the hallways in the middle of the night? One with a low, deep, heartache. That'd be me. The sounds, though, never reach my door. The telltale clink of the key in the lock never comes. Another deep breath, a blink, force a smile, and I try to drift back to sleep.
When he came in last night he put away my clean dishes before he even came into the bedroom. I was mostly asleep, but I knew he was doing it because of the sound of silverware and drawers. When he came into the bedroom he took my computer off the bed, turned off the movie I'd fallen asleep to, set the alarm on my phone, and put everything on my bedside table. I remember a kiss on the forehead before he went to take a shower. I fell asleep again when he disappeared into my bathroom and the water started running.
Tonight he said he'd see me tomorrow. Why not tonight? He takes full responsibility for being rude in not seeing me tonight even though this is our usual night. Come by after he closes the bar? He says maybe. We've all known what maybe means since we were 7. 'Maybe' is a nice way of saying 'no' an hour later. I should know a tease like 'maybe' when I hear it. But I'm a dreamer.
He sneaks into bed beside me. Puts a hand on my hip and a kiss on my cheek. He brushes the hair out of my eyes and lays his head on the pillow. (Yep, that pillow.) I can't help but shiver a bit and scoot closer to him. Suddenly I'm not nearly as tired as I'd been an hour ago. I could stay awake for days if he'd keep holding me like this.
I knew he wouldn't be here, on the inside. I can face bad news in most situations, and, if I do say so myself, I usually face it with amazing grace. When it comes to heartache I am at a loss. I would rather tease myself to sleep than face the horribly obvious reality that he won't be here tonight. He isn't with anyone else, that isn't the problem, he just isn't with me. In a way that might be worse. It really is worse. It is worse.
He's not here, and tonight he won't be. Tonight is nothing like last night, but really it is only different by one serendipitous moment: the moment at which he turned left instead of right. He chose to go toward me and away from home, toward company and away from loneliness, toward inevitable heartache and away from total independence. But tonight he went right. He went home. No call, no message. Leaving me here to smell the pillow.
Slowly waking up with my back to him, I take a minute to turn over. His eyes are closed, but he's not asleep. If he were asleep he couldn't have kissed me. "Is that my goodnight kiss?" "No, I'll let you take care of that one." So the next kiss is my job. If I could freeze this moment I would. One minute I can be so close to sublime, and the next I'm light years behind again. But right now that barely matters. This is the first minute. We fall asleep facing each other, inches apart, breathing in unison. He notices me drifting off. He gives me the goodnight kiss. I fall asleep, with him and a smile.
I should know better. Once in a while is not worth the rest of the time. I am playing with hearts while waiting for him to stop playing with mine. But I love the game. Even when I lose, I still know I played with my all. I know I'm in the running for the prize, at least the wild card. I know my stats are improving, I know I'm practicing every time. I love love. I love romance. I love the beginning. I love infatuation. I love these silly butterflies swirling in my stomach every night, keeping me awake and completely rearranging my schedule. The little sting I get when I realize the sounds in the hallway aren't from him is completely worth it. Just a prick. A little pressure. Then it's gone. Takes a tiny bit of the virus to build an immunity.
Morning. He wakes me with a kiss as he scrambles to turn off my alarm. I never hear my alarm. He knows. He turns it off and tells me to get up. I get up, get ready, kiss him goodbye, head to work. Hours later I get home to find my bed made, and my stuffed animals hugging in front of the pillows. He thought of it all. My stuffed animals weren't even on the bed last night, they were in my closet. If he is trying to get me to stop falling, this is not the way to do it.
Tonight, when I reach for the other pillow, I remember last night. It plays out like a chapter of a story, of a great romance novel. But what great novel happens one night at a time? No great romance ends with the heroine alone 6 nights a week waiting for company. No great heroine admits to sleeping on the other pillow to feel safe, wanted, less alone. Am I not the heroine of my own story? Maybe I'm in the wrong section. This isn't popular fiction. This is autobiography.
Reality looks so different in Times New Roman.
L
