She jokes that the left side of her bed hasn’t been used in years. That she’s gotten used to the quiet. That she finally gets to sleep through the night without anyone snoring beside her.
But her sheets tell on her.
Every morning, they’re in disarray — pulled, twisted, gripped. The fabric bunched where thighs have pressed. The pillows shifted where hands have searched.
She might sleep alone, but her body doesn’t rest. It remembers.
It dreams.
Sometimes she wakes with her nightgown askew. A flush in her chest. A dampness that doesn’t come from sweat. She tells herself it was just a memory — a dream of something long gone.
But her dreams keep coming. And each morning, the bed tells the same story:
She still turns over with longing.
Still arches into empty space.
Still presses her thighs together as if someone might be there.
She says she sleeps well alone.
But alone has never looked so restless.