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An excerpt from the nights with him

There is something about him, when he sleeps. Every night I tuck myself in a stupor of his fresh fragrance and I wake up bathed in his scents. It is almost like our souls touch, every time we drift to sleep in each others arms. The word serendipity comes alive with him on my side.

It always starts with small talk, I admit my fallacy, I am too ill equipped to start a conversation. It has to be a three word question, which he chooses to answer with precision. Sometimes I wonder if at all he actively hears the question I put forward, or if it is his reflex that does most of the brainstorming.

He relaxes at his side of the bed, takes a book in hand, shuffles through briskly, and I mirror the same. We both read on both sides of the bed, without invading the airspace between, and I, utterly exhausted from the day’s wait, stifle a yawn, and then tug at the cover, indicating that it is time I retire.

He looks at me kindly, and does the same, only sleeps on his side of the bed. Age has taken a toll on us. We are no longer the couple involved in passionate love making. The flame has flickered and what we have now are remnants of ashes. I sit up every night, pretending to sleep, but all I do is to fan the ashes, in attempt to light the fire again.

My husband drifts off to a quick sleep. I wait. In perfect silence.

At sharp 4 am in the morning, his body drifts close to mine, and he cups me in his generous arms. He has been doing this out of reflex probably, because he had enveloped me for the last ten years. Lately, his subconscious makes him fondle me.

He snuggles up, and I ease in, with the first rays of dawn tinting my casement, and the night is ushered away slowly. We are asleep in an embrace, like the good old days, and there no space. In the deepest phase of sleep, he is the closest to my soul.

It is the most intimate when the sun is exposed. His fingers are entwined in mine, my hair lurks around his neck, my clothes have given away, his covers have drifted and his bare chest shows. I bask in this, for a while. To see this, I keep awake every night.

The mornings are thus the beginnings. They make me feel younger, they make me feel immortal. They are testimonies that times haven’t changed. Just that we have moved to a different level of consciousness, where we acknowledge each other, but no longer have the desire to express it. Our desires are expressed by the subconscious.

And then again I spend the rest of the day, waiting for him to get home and repeat all of this. I wait for another morning, not realising, that with every morning, we are growing distant and also closer at the same time. Paradoxical, no?

An excerpt from the nights with him.

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