You slumber, close to the edge of the bed, strong, round, warm. I scribble with fine tipped pencil in the ninety-ninth notebook to live beside my side of our bed. Three pages. 

From some place between here and nod, you plead, ​“Please turn off the overhead light.”

My hand is not ready to stop moving. You wait. I finish. Get up, walk past the bureaus, the laundry basket, enter the alarm code, switch off the light. Shuffle back to bed, snatching the remote control.

Click on, channel-up to reruns of old sitcoms, never the 11:00 p.m. news. I swear to myself I’ll only watch for a few minutes, until I start to drop off to sleep.

You flip onto your other side, a large, disgruntled pancake flop. ​“I think I’m going to get you infrared headphones.” I lower the television volume to barely audible. Not a big issue for me, I know the dialogue from this show by heart. Before it’s over I sign off, pound my pillows into a shape that will support my neck, nestle my head and let me spoon close to you.

You lift your arm, and I hug you from behind, conforming to your curves. You pull me closer, and I hang on tight, clutching on to your willingness to give into sleep. You mumble, ​“Yes, everything’s going to be okay.”

I sigh and drift off and wake only when my hand is numb from the weight of your arm. I pull my tingling arm free, stretch onto my back, one hand and leg always touching you, and I smile. This is good. This is love.