Alone

She can't sit on his side of the bed. It just doesn't feel right. It's not her side. Her side is the side closest to the night stand and the alarm clock. This is because he'd keep sleeping away and let the god-damned alarm go off all day long if she wasn't there to shut it off and tell him it was time to get up and get ready for work. So the alarm clock side of the bed is her side of the bed. Never mind if he's not here to take up his side of the bed most of the time. Never mind if the mattress is so shot on her side that she can't even sleep in on Saturday mornings anymore because her back hurts too much.

It's still her side of the bed, and it's the side on which she still sleeps. Or, as in this case, sits, either reading or working on the afghan she's been working on for nearly two years or, on those now-rare occasions when she can summon both the emotion and the energy, writing. She has written a lot of letters to him from her side of the bed, often while drunk and sometimes while he lay asleep beside her. Usually, she cries while she writes these letters - because he'll never see them, and she'll never be able to tell him the things she tells him in them.

For the most part, she thinks things are better off that way.

She's alone tonight. She told him she just wanted to go home. She did, but not just because of the bills she has to pay or the dogs she has to feed or the work she brought home from the office or the roast she has in the slow cooker or the book she wants to read. Sometimes, she just wants to go home and be alone. It never does any good; when she's alone, she thinks of nothing but him and how she wants his warmth and his touch and his smile.

But, sometimes, being alone and wanting him is a nice refresher from being with him.

Sometimes she forgets what she's like when she's alone. She doesn't want to forget that person, but he's such an easy distraction. And he, of course, doesn't know the person she is when she's alone.

The dogs are ready for bed, but she is not. Even though it's a quarter past eleven. Even though tomorrow will be another hellish, endless, thankless day at work. Even though she knows in the morning she will loathe herself for squandering this perfectly good chance for some extra sleep. She can never get enough sleep anymore. Not even on the weekends, because the damn mattress hurts her back too much.

And the weekdays don't have enough hours for her to do everything that needs to be done. She always finds a way, though. If she doesn't do it, no one will. That's one part of being along that she finds comforting. Everything really does depend on her now. Not because he assumes she will take care of everything - not anymore. Because now she really is the only one here to take care of everything.

It's better that way, but she hasn't told him so. He would be offended. And once he is offended, it doesn't 't matter what else she wants him to know. Once he gets offended, or angry, or hurt, it doesn't matter.

But the last few times they've fought, he has apologized on the morning after. This is new, and she's not sure yet what she thinks of it. She can count on one hand the number of times he has ever said he was sorry. And most of those times have occurred in the last few weeks. Four years together, and he's finally apologizing. She hasn't decided whether she trusts this new development. Whether he lets her have her say or not, inside, he is still always right. She can see it in his eyes. To apologize for hurting her is to admit that he did something wrong.

So now what? Maybe it's because she doesn't cry as often anymore. This is another side effect of once again being alone. She doesn't cry so god-damned easily anymore.

She knows she can keep being alone if it comes down to it. It doesn't scare her anymore. The thought that he might never come back doesn't break her heart the way it used to. That, too, is probably for the best. But he doesn't know that, either.

He hasn't called yet tonight. Sometimes he does, sometimes he doesn't. Sometimes she misses him and gives in and calls just to hear his voice. Sometimes she's stubborn and decides she doesn't care. Either way, she's always waiting to see if the phone rings or not. Some little piece of her, deep inside, somewhere between her heart and her soul, expects the phone to ring. And if it doesn't, she will turn off the light and turn on the alarm and lie down on her side of the bed and go to sleep, alone.

Sometimes, he sends her a text message that she can read when she wakes up in the morning, and sometimes that is the best thing he can do. Because she loves him, and she loves it when he thinks of her when she's not there. If he does so often, he doesn't often let her know. After four years, this is one of the few things she still doesn't know for sure. Does he think about her when he's alone? Does he wait for the phone to ring? Does she exist at all?

It is now a quarter to midnight, and the phone is not ringing.

So she turns off the light and turns on the alarm. She lies down on her side of the bed. She wishes for his arms around her. She goes to sleep, alone.