Cozy

Unable to sleep, I lie awake on my back, staring at the shadows the fluttering curtain makes in the light cast on it by the street lights. There is a very light breeze outside and it must be pleasant. Inside the house, it's a little stuffy. I wish some of the fresh air would get in and dispel the stale feeling the room has. I look longingly at the open window. The moon is struggling to get some light into the room through the curtain, but it is too feeble in comparison to the harsh yellow light of the street lamps. I wish someone would throw a well-aimed stone at the street lamps and extinguish the artificial light.

I bite my tongue guiltily at the vandalism I'm hoping for, and turn my head, almost afraid that he has heard my thought. He won't like it. But he lies on his side of the bed breathing regularly, his eyes closed and face calm, and I relax. His hair is tussled up and I suppress a desire to run my fingers through it and pretend to tidy it up. I don't want to wake him. He doesn't really like his sleep being disturbed, not any more.

The bed is soft. A little too soft, I think. The blanket is soft and warm and it feels heavy on my chest. My gaze returns towards the window. I toy with the idea of creeping out of bed and opening the window fully and tying up the curtain, so that the cold night can come in. But I decide not to. He likes it this way. Cozy, he calls it. This is how home should be, he says, cozy.

I close my eyes and pray for sleep to take me.