Bed

‘My bed smells of you. I’m trying to read but you keep interrupting.’

That text made me think about him.

Lying in his bed with the smell of my perfume emanating from a negligee that I had placed strategically beneath the pillow I had vacated only 15 hours before.

Despite my only fleeting visits, the room is still full of memories that enforce how big a part of his life I have become.

If he looks a little to his right and upwards, he can see the Queynte that Jackie Adshead painted for us, framed now and standing guard over him.

To his left, the set of drawers containing my favourite toys. The ones that survived the cull because they work for us.

Further over, the Magic Mirror into which I pause and look whenever I pass, particularly when I’m naked… which I so often am in his flat. He will smile at the memory and the knowledge of my improved body image as a result.

Diagonally opposite in the corner is the punchbag which I will attack in various states of undress.

That bed is our haven but, for him, also a continual reminder.

I am not in it.