I could hear him pattering away at his keyboard as if I was the one drenched in technological sweat.  Lit by the accumulation of countless screens. Seconds later, there was silence. Then, a barely audible grumble under his breath or a whisper to our cat, Jebbi, to move his furry butt out of the way. Just as steady and forthright as before, the pattering repeated. This time it was accompanied by the squeak of his wooden chair. Or maybe a slow, lingering exhale. He had finished a troublesome paragraph, or better yet, one hell of a chapter. 

I buried my body beneath the weight of our heavy down comforter. I curled the edge closest to my face within my fingers until a cool square of fabric settled upon my cheek. I rubbed my bare feet against the flannel sheets. They sought a cool area, too. It is possible that the clouds may have cut out a space for me, sectioning off a small puffy patch of heaven just for me. 

I forgot to gather his pillow within my arms and pull it to my torso under the covers. Any other early morning I would have been upset at my misfortune. It did not pain me too much to leave my cloud for a few seconds, though. I somehow knew which movements would place me right back to where I was before. 

He pattered and grumbled and whispered away, and I lost all desire to fight my sleepy eyes. All was right with him. All was right with me.

I awoke hours later to his arms around me. He was sleeping heavily, his breath warm and sweet, and the hand that rested on my abdomen squeezed and jerked. I felt self-conscious about my body even when he was swimming neck-deep in sleep. I decided it was far too hot beneath the covers and under his large, grazing hand. I feared waking him like I feared flipping a pancake over too late. I bubbled once I was free from his embrace and slid a sweatshirt over my head. I could not tell if it was his or mine in the dark. 

I made sure to close our bedroom door with care. I ground the coffee beans. I waited for the kettle to steam and simper, not allowing it any more spectacle than that. I put sliced bread in the toaster. I rinsed off last night's dishes and nestled them into the racks of the dishwasher. I sorted the recycle bins. 

He left his slippers by the front door. Had he left them by the back door I would have known he had went out for a late night stroll around the block.  That some imaginative tragedy had taken up residency in his brain. A clever and sensitive brain so overwrought with self-sabotage and low feelings that he was desperate for a reminder. A reminder that the fresh air outside was for him to breathe in and out as much as it was for anyone else.