You wake up. It's four in the morning. The heater has gone off some time in the night. She lies beside you. Her back curves a C, curls tight like a newborns fist in a mother's hair. There is space between you, even in this small double bed, with your large frame, an invisible wall of pillows stacked, a force field that walks between you in the night just as the day. You separate yourself from the sheets. Slip out into air, cold from the constant winter rain battering the windows. She doesn't move. The room holds her gentle breath sleeping.
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You're happy. Your job isn't bad - leaves your nights and weekends free so you and your family are close. Closer than most. One day you're up fixing the roof of the garage. Notice a soft spot when you're clearing the gutters, tired of having rain leak through to drip down, puddle your car. It's three. John Wayne. You remember there's a John Wayne movie on today. You read in the listings. It was one you watched with your dad once. Even though you don't like Westerns, this one would be your favorite if you did so - it's time for a break.
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It's either loud or quiet. You feel sad today so your orgasm ripples out in tiny waves from your centre leaving you quiet. Speechless. He thinks he's done it wrong. "We'll try again." But it's happened. It's deeply personal. You can't tall him it's like a salvation. That his soft touch brought you a relief you didn't know you needed until you were there. In his bed. The light held back by heavy curtains. Your bodies moving over the landscape of pillows and duvets, blanketed by shadows.
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