It’s a fact that every man I’ve dated has slept on his stomach. Even now, peacefully surrendering to his dreams, he drapes an arm around me and pulls me into the nook of his elbow. His breathing is mostly still except for the times when he “makes noise”, which is what he’s taken to calling my occasional snoring (only during allergy season, to be clear). He is solid and warm, marking me even in sleep as his with just his arm. He rarely moves.
I fall asleep on my side, my back turned to him so perhaps he will kiss my shoulder blades before we try to sleep. I start on my side and roll fitfully through the night onto my back, to the other side, occasionally on my stomach. My foot rubs his calf gently as I ease myself back into sleep again and again. I move through the night, away from him and towards, all at once. I always wake up before him, my side of the bed a tangle with the sheets half off; he is steady as ever. I wonder at this complete surrender to sleep, at the inability of my mind to to be still. I slide closer and under his arm which rests on my stomach, my soft hip to his sharper one and I rest.
