ambush

You know that twilight country you pass through every night, in between awake and asleep?  You have to be careful there.  That's where all those things you managed to push out of your mind during the day will sneak up and ambush you.  And it's where I am, my brain finally slipping into neutral after a long Monday, when I'm jumped by a memory.  

A different night, in Charles' bed.  I was at just the same point of awake-but-not-really.  He had asked me something, I think about whether I was warm and should he open the sliding door.  But my lips were too heavy to answer, and when he realized it, he stopped asking questions and just kissed my forehead.  One slow, contented kiss -- more for his benefit than mine, since he wasn't sure I was awake.  I drifted off to sleep reveling in that small gesture of possession.

The memory jerks me upwards, like a diver breaking the surface of the water.  I'm back in my own bed, wide awake and unhappy.

If there's anything better than being held by someone you care about -- or think you might be able to care about -- while you fall asleep, I haven't discovered it yet. So when you've gotten used to that luxury, even just a little, even just for a few weeks, it's difficult to revert.  As my subconscious is now pointedly reminding me.

I'll keep slogging, I guess.  And maybe have glass of wine before bed.