i can sleep alone, but it doesn't mean i like it

Unlocking the door of my apartment, I realize that it’s Tuesday and that I haven’t slept in my bed since Tuesday. It just worked out. And we were busy. And I’ve been here to visit and get clothes and blog and even just hang out. And I really didn’t mean to leave my phone at Ted’s, but once I was back there, it made sense just to sleep in his bed.

And I’m not annoyed at having to take the train to see him or of always having underpants in my bag or even of finding an elbow where I might want to roll over.

What if we fell asleep together every night?

I don’t want to shove with both hands. No get-out-of-my-bed get-out-of my-space get-out-of-my-life. That’s a feeling so familiar, I think I’d recognize it creeping up.

“It would be fun. . . lots of weekend activities and delicious things to eat. . . .”

“There would be a lot of boring parts, too, like making dinner and stuff.”

There’d be all the paying bills and cleaning the bathtub and don’t-forget-to-take-the-trash-when-you-go-out. Just life. There’d be all the life in-between.


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