Every night, I go to bed beside my husband.
I, curled away from him, just so. I must face the window. Must place my hand beneath my left cheek. Must breathe quietly. Must set my phone on airplane mode (think of the radiation).
He, on his back, with his hand on my hip.
In the morning, he’s gone, banished to the guest room by a tiny freckled boy who eats too many tomatoes, begs to watch children in Australia opening toys we can’t afford, toys I’d never buy because we are trying to save the planet, for Pete’s sake. Does any mother understand the appeal of this?
He curls into me, arm draped across my stomach, tells me I’m soft. Tells me I’m beautiful. Asks me for kisses, for cuddles, for my phone.
He’ll grow out of it. One day, I’ll look out onto a vast landscape of mornings in bed with the same person I fell asleep beside.
So we let it happen. Every night, the same choreography.
I sleep hard, impossible to wake, while they move around me, like planets orbiting the sun.