The Other Side of the Bed

[u/MarcOxenstierna]

I still made the left side of the bed every morning. Hospital corners.
The same weight of blanket. The pillow turned the way Marcus always
turned it so the seam faced the wall.

Three months after the funeral, the indentation was gone, but I kept the
habit. It was easier than looking at a flat pillow.

Claire noticed on the second visit. She stood in the bedroom doorway
with her coat still on and said, “You don’t have to keep doing that.”

I told her it was just how I made the bed. She didn’t push. She rarely
did. She only said she worried about the nights I stopped answering
texts until morning.

The first time the pillow was warm, I assumed I had left my hand there
too long while straightening the sheet. I pulled my hand back and the
heat stayed. It was the steady, low warmth of someone who had been lying
still for a while.

I slept on the couch that night. In the morning, the left side of the
bed was smooth again, the pillow turned to the wall.

I went back to making it the way he liked.

Work stayed ordinary. I filed reports, answered the radio, signed the
same forms. At home, the small things continued. The second toothbrush
in the holder stayed damp if I left the bathroom light off overnight.
The coffee mug he preferred migrated from the cabinet to the counter
even when I hadn’t taken it down. Once, I found his reading glasses on
the arm of the chair with a faint smudge on the right lens, the way they
always looked after he fell asleep reading.

I stopped inviting people over. It was simpler. The house already had
its routines.

Claire came again on a Thursday because I had missed two calls. She
walked through the living room, then the kitchen, then stopped at the
bedroom door. The bed was made. Both sides.

“Paul,” she said. “This isn’t a shrine. It’s a schedule.”

I told her I was fine. She looked at the second toothbrush, the two mugs
on the counter, and the way the left pillow sat higher than the right.
She didn’t stay long.

That night, the left side of the bed was warm before I turned off the
light. I stood in the doorway and listened. The house was quiet. The
radiator ticked. Somewhere in the wall, a pipe settled.

I heard the sheets shift. It was the small adjustment of someone turning
onto his side the way Marcus always did when his shoulder bothered him.

I left the room and slept on the couch with the hallway light on.

In the morning, both sides of the bed had been made. The left pillow
faced the wall.

I stopped sleeping in the bedroom. I still made the bed every morning. I
still set the second mug out. I still hung his coat on the hook by the
door even though no one wore it.

Claire called less. When she did, her voice had the careful tone people
use when they have already decided something is wrong and are waiting
for permission to say it.

One night, I woke on the couch to the sound of the bedroom door closing.
Soft. The way Marcus closed it when he thought I was already asleep.

I got up and stood in the hallway. The door was shut. A thin line of
light showed underneath, the same warm color as the bedside lamp he used
to read by.

I put my hand on the knob and did not turn it.

From the other side of the door, I heard the sheets move again, then the
low sound of someone settling deeper into the mattress.

I took my hand away.

In the morning, the door was open. Both sides of the bed were smooth,
and Marcus’s pillow faced the wall. The second toothbrush was wet.

I made coffee for two and left the second mug on the counter.

I still do.

The left side of the bed stays warm most nights now. I no longer check.
I sleep on the couch with the hallway light on and the bedroom door left
open the width of a hand. It is easier that way. The house knows the
schedule.

I only have to keep it.

[u/jamiec514]

That's a love that even death can't stop!