My husband and I gaze at each other while we brush our teeth, savoring these final moments together before we go our separate ways.
I kiss him goodnight and do a series of somersaults to the other side of the bed. I’m wearing a red slip to make sure this is how he pictures me during our time apart. He hates to see me go, but he loves the sight of my barely covered derriere tumbling away.
Once I reach my side of the mattress, I change into the plaid flannel onesie with closed feet and a butt flap that my husband thinks I donated to Goodwill last spring. Then I practice capoeira to release the last bits of energy from the day before hitting the hay. Without his contacts in, my husband mistakes me for an L.L. Bean fleece blanket fluttering gracefully in the breeze from the AC vent.
Meanwhile, my life partner tosses, turns, and loudly attempts to learn Mandarin on Duolingo. None of these activities requires me to relocate to the couch, which is good, because we no longer have a couch. There’s no room for any furniture in our apartment except the bed.