His Side of the Bed

A troublesome routine had begun recently.
She hesitated to get ready for bed, pausing momentarily, as she began to slip into her delicate crimson nightgown.
Climbing into her plush bed should evoke a sense of relaxation.
But instead she was bombarded with memories of songs he had written for her, kisses pressed up against the front door, the way his hands grabbed her skin pleading for more, and his endless ramblings about nothing.
Her mind was flooded and she was drowning within it.
The digital clock next to her bed had become an annoying reminder of the hours that painfully dragged on and the slumber that she could not acquire.
Her thoughts had no off-switch despite all attempts to distract herself.
Reading a gossip magazine didn’t help; neither did watching late-night infomercials.
Nothing could make her brain relax, though physically her eyelids drooped like they were connected to dumbbells and yawns poured out of her mouth like water from a fountain.
She rapidly rotated and turned her body until the layers of cotton sheets and cashmere blankets had become tangled around her.
Her body heated in annoyance like embers from a fresh flame.
Even sprawling her limbs out like a starfish, relishing in the fact that she had a big bed to herself, was only momentarily satisfying.
After several minutes had passed the position began to feel oddly wrong and she then inched her way back to her original position facing the nightstand.
As a last resort she half-heartedly lined pillows on the opposite side of her.
But pillows aren’t heavy arms tightly wrapped around her waist like a ribbon around a birthday present.
It didn’t matter how long it had been; the left side was still his side of the bed.