We went to bed kind of fighting. Kind of, meaning, I let my mouth run off, spewing the most offensive dangling modifiers and other grammatical errors. Your face was tucked into sweaty forearms (your own), back against me and my unapologetic face.
You might have been sleeping.
We didn't cuddle that night, in fact, far from cuddling we were magnetically pulled apart. You were drawn towards the wall and I was half falling off the bed's edge. Usually, we like to do this weird "couple-ly" thing: We spoon, legs entangled, your arm probably cramping from the weight of my head. This practice is especially fervent right before your flights back to Seattle. I was also wearing this incredibly unflattering and unsexy potato-sack of a t-shirt to bed. But you're not shallow like that anyway ("it's what's underneath that counts"). Haha.
As usual, the alarm goes off at 4 am and your uncomplicated process of leaving me begins. I wake up this time, and with one eye open, watch your dark figure move unfettered by emotional exhaustion, morning breath, and regret. Lump in throat forms and I want to wait until you leave before lump snowballs into tears.
"I'm leaving, babe." Silence and low-octave mumbling ensues.
Crawling under the covers one last time, you wrap your leather-jacketed arm around me because you know that I'm praying so hard for this and that I'm biting my tongue for all the mean-spirited comments and childish follies of yesterday. And despite my brattiness, you risk missing the early flight for one more cuddle because our next is two weeks away.
This is why I'm in love with you.
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