The thought of coming home to you is tantalisingly strong.
I would come home in my grey blazer, soaked to the bone from cold autumnal rain. I’d be grumpy. I’d see your head with your glasses perched on the end of your nose, your mind far away between the comfortable pages of your book. I’d smile inwardly, and look forward to your comfort. Inevitably you say: “Get in the shower before you catch a chill!” as you take my blazer off to leave it to dry.
I would feel so loved that you care to look after me, in every way.
Later, I’d sit on my bed, sleepy after the warm, and you would loiter in my room. My room is exactly as I remember it: Light blue, a single bed, my white chair in the corner. The room that you had once dubbed ‘the Snug’ before it became all mine. I would think about how much I had been looking forward to this when I was in the rain, as one of our cats settles on my lap.
In the old days, I would roll over to go onto my phone and scroll. But in this heaven, you settle down beside me, and I cuddle you, my face in your scarf, breathing in your smell. You are the only thing in the world I need. I’d fall asleep with that easy feeling I had taken for granted for a long time.
Safety. Comfort. Predictability.