He believed in ritual and routine, and I believed in staying in bed until the bars opened, subsisting on whatever delights could be foraged within arm’s reach. And so our days would go: he would sleep little and lightly, resentful of my life signs, stacking each breath and wriggle on top of the grudge Jenga. In return, I would lie in, with a vengeance.
At 5am, he would cease to occupy my space, bursting out of our cocoon to do whatever it was healthy, well-adjusted people liked to do under direct sunlight. When I awoke an unspecified number of hours later, I would wince, stretch my belly out like some kind of ass-backwards feline, then thrust my arms and legs into the corners of the bed, feeling their coolness. Somehow, like this, I got to feel like I was a giant embracing the whole bed. That made me lonely.
When I felt lonely, I didn’t want to get out of bed. So when my phone buzzed, as it always did around this time, I ignored it, to spite him, and because I didn’t feel like being seen being lonely, not by him or by anyone else. He would find me by moonlight, aloft on the loving arms of my oldest friend.