On Love

angry wifeIn the morning, I accomplish what often seems like an impossible feat. Somehow, though, it happens… and only the gods know how and why.

I get myself up at 5:30 every weekday morning. The fight is epic. Every bone and muscle in my body screams “Sleep more! Text the teacher and say your kids are sick! You want more sleep! You NEED more sleep!”

Also, I am beginning to think my bed is in cahoots with the pillows and blankets. At least, that is the best explanation I can come up with. Otherwise, why would the few minutes before the Alarm From Hell goes off be the time when I am at my most comfortable and toasty?

It’s a conspiracy, I tell you.

Anyway, somehow- as if by sheer will alone- I pry myself off my bed, out of the reach of my cozy blankets, and propel myself vaguely upright.

My partner, damn him, is still lying in bed. I rationalize that I shouldn’t be too pissed off at the fact that he gets out of bed much later than I do. I tell myself the he gets up later because he is an insomniac (due to his P.T.S.D), and the morning is often when he gets the best chance to sleep. I tell myself all kinds of things like this, but the fact is that- when I’m awake too early for my liking and still half asleep- I kind of hate the guy.

For a moment, every morning before I head out of the bedroom, I have this particular urge. My partner would like this urge to be the sort of urge that sees me pouncing on his sleeping form, waking him in a pleasant but not-so-gentle way, and having my way with him then and there, only to leave him exhausted enough afterwards to (hopefully) fall asleep.

No.

It’s not that kind of urge.

As I stand there in the dark on my side of the bed for those few moments, I think about quietly going over to his side. I would look lovingly down at him as he lay there quietly. Whether he is actually asleep, or lying there and wondering what the hell I am doing standing there and staring at him like a creepy stalker… I don’t know. It doesn’t matter, anyway.

I think about bending over him, just inches away from his head, with a slight smile on my face.

“HAVE A NICE FUCKING DAY!” I’d scream, suddenly.

He’d sit bolt upright in the bed, cursing and swearing and flailing, and I’d duck and dodge before dashing out into the hallway. The possible injuries, I rationalize, might even be worth it. I’d be awake at that ungodly hour, and he’d be awake to share in it; after all, misery does love company.

Instead, I quietly exit the bedroom and leave him to sleep. Love has a way of making resist these little homicidal urges; it’s a good thing I love that guy.

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