Despite the two-foot distance, Hubby’s breath is soft and warm across my face. The rankness of garlic isn’t a pleasant smell first thing in the morning. He barely touches me, just a flicker of a finger against my skin. He wants me to scoot over to him, wants me to make the first move. He won’t make it himself; not sure why. Why can’t he lay his arm across my chest or stomach?
So I lie there, as I do every morning, hoping for once he might make the first move, but he doesn’t. I don’t want to make the first move every morning. Once in a while, I’d like him to do so, to show me he cares, so I feel wanted.
If I ask why he doesn’t, he says he doesn’t want to disturb me. But that answer isn’t true, of course. If that were the case, he’d be quieter when he gets up to use the bathroom. Instead of throwing the covers and clumping to the next room, he’d gently alight from bed and walk softly to the bathroom. When he returns to bed, he could get into bed more silently and not huff and puff as if he’s blowing the house down. No, his answer doesn’t make sense.
I wish he’d make a first move. Just once!
I crave hugging and that wanted feeling before he leaves for work. I need that to start off my day, to pull me through loneliness or a busy day. To start me on the right track.
I sigh. I tremble. He doesn’t react. He must know I’m awake, more awake than I am most mornings, yet he ignores me. Maybe he doesn’t want to cuddle. He’s a busy man; perhaps he’s too deep into thoughts and can’t be bothered. Perhaps he doesn’t care.
I move. Just an inch. A hint to him to scoot over like his sly invitation to me. I silently pray that he might so I can feel better about myself. But he doesn’t. A counselor once advised me to take what I can, what I need.
I slither over. He reciprocates; he always does. He raises his arm, and I snuggle into him and wrap my right arm around his warmth. I lean my head against his cheek. His hand caresses my shoulder. We lie like that for 20 minutes or so until he squirms—the sign he wants to go. He kisses my forehead—the sign I should move back to my side of the bed. I disentangle myself from him, move over, and shroud myself with the linens.
All is right in the world. For a little while.