Early in the morning, I wake up before he does. I look over at his face. It looks slightly droopy in its state of complete relaxation, but that is as much about his beard as his age. Usually, his shoulder is free of the sheet he uses for cover. The bare skin entices me to reach out and touch it, but I resist.
The price of waking up first is this longing for what is close at hand, but untouchable in the moment. It is desire not yet, but soon to be, fulfilled. It carries the sweetness of anticipation.
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