He has to get up early and I suddenly realize I forgot to set up the coffee.
I slip out of bed as quietly as I can and do it in the dark, getting water from the fountain in the hallway, doling out the grounds, setting the timer; the motions practiced, the buttons memorized.
He shifts in his sleep, his hands feeling out the space where I should be. I climb up beside him and his arms find me easily.
In the morning I can hear him dressing before I open my eyes; a zipper, a belt buckle. “There’s coffee,” I say into my pillow, and he leans over to kiss the corner of my mouth. “I love you too,” he says, and I can’t tell if he misheard me or not.
I love the way the back of his hair sticks up in the morning.
I love the way he reaches for me in the middle of the night.