My Side

It’s taken me four long nights to accept the fact that I don’t have to huddle on the left side of the bed anymore. I can spread out. I can sprawl in the middle. I can leave my light on. I can eat chocolate chip cookies on the duvet, or cheesy puffs while I’m under the covers. Nobody will care. Nobody will criticize. Here’s the hitch, though: Nobody will even know.

I always slept on my side of the bed, the left. “What’s left is mine,” I teased more than once in my married life. That’s me: slightly snide. Black knew that when he married me, said it was one of the things he loved, my non-Southern-belle bite. Right. Some of my getting-the-leftovers sarcasm comes from marrying a man while he’s in his last year of law school. A prescription for problems. One of those hindsight ah-has.

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