She was reading her book on children. And I was reading the Economist. It is bedtime and we are doing our usual thing. That's how our days end; that is how we go to bed - reading.
But there is always a need to make sure that some part of me is touching some part of her and tonight is no different. Sometimes it is just shoulders touching. At other times it is a head on the shoulder. Occasionally, her tummy is my pillow. Today is was my ankle crossing hers.
Just. For the sake of being in touch.
Sleep came a lot quicker to me tonight that it did on others. Happens. One of those things. But also an unusually high need for comfort. I put the magazine away and shuffling myself lower down the bed, put my arms around her, my face in my bosom.
Silently, sweetly, she turned toward me, propping herself up on her pillows and put her book away. She is like that. My need is always more meaningful for her than anything she might be doing. She put her arms around me and pulled me close. I nosed around in her bosom, making space for myself amongst her soft, dumpling breasts.
She gently pushed me away to make space and raised her t-shirt, offering me the warmth and softness of her body. I snuggled up to her, growing faintly conscious of her unfurling nipples. But I never noticed anything more for I was fast asleep in the comfort of her arms before I knew it.
