I hadn’t anticipated how difficult it would be to leave my ex-wife’s bed this morning, but it was. I had woken up at 6AM, my eyes immediately alert to the rising sun, body flushed with anxiety. It had taken hours to fall asleep the night before, but I wasn’t tired. Anticipation will do that to you. While I stared at the ceiling waiting for a more appropriate waking time, my ex-wife slept soundly, dirty blond hair fanning around her cherubic face. The soft fuzz on her cheek glowed in the morning light, and I was tempted to stroke it with the back of my fingers, as I had so many times before, but I didn’t.
We hadn’t shared a bed since we decided to amicably separate – me sleeping in the guest room, her in our bedroom. Formerly our bedroom. At first I thought sleeping without her next to me would be difficult, even though we hadn’t been intimate in years, but I adapted quickly. I did, at times, miss her heat. The night before I moved across the country seemed like a good time for a small ask; one last shared night in our (her) bed. I would have enough time to sleep alone. She, angel that she is, of course obliged me. It is her nature to be kind. We got dressed in our pajamas separately, forcing an undoing of our previous unabashed intimacy.