If I stop writing, we die.
Rolling over next to you this morning, it is a moment between dream and reality. I uttered, ‘Are you mad at me?’ You were probably in between waking up and sleeping, and did not talk much.
I was fully convinced of my dream. I hugged you closely. ‘You are not mad at me right?’ I think I made no sense to you.
Pulling you even closer, I sniffed you. You tried kissing my forehead, I shifted away – I had not washed my hair for a couple of days, I don’t smell perfect. I always want to be perfect around you.
I fell back to sleep. You got up, changed into your newly tailored shirt. I opened one eye to look at your new shirt. It was the blue shirt with the dark blue inner collar. ‘You look great.’ You kissed me once before going to work. I wanted another kiss, ‘One more’, and you leaned down and kissed me again.
You went off. I snuggled into the sheets alone. The smell of the sheets, the smell of you.