If you are all coupled up in domesticated bliss…or domesticated non-bliss, whatever…you have your side of the bed. It’s your side at home, your side in hotels and at your in-laws’ house when you travel.
And that side “sticks.” It stays long after you’ve filed your copy of the divorce papers into some folder in the closet. The bed I have now is MY bed, never part of any long time shack-up, but I still have my side. The other side stays empty, and the blankets stay pulled up high and neat on the other side, the wrong side. Sometimes my leg or my arm will drift over into the cold, empty space, but I still sleep on my side of the bed.
This morning, I woke up from a ten hour hibernation (ten hours! not 4, not 6, but ten, that’s weird all by itself) on the wrong side of the bed, all curled up with the “other” pillows. Blanket up to my cheek. A little disoriented, and maybe a little sad that there is such a thing as this empty space to crawl into.
I was so bewildered that I scooted back over to my side, and I let my feet hit the floor from my side, not the other side. I waffle back and forth between wanting that side of the bed filled and wanting it to stay empty, because empty means my heart is safe.