She often wondered how she coped. Each morning she would awaken and he would be gone, pyjamas folded neatly and left on his pillow, his glass of water untouched. She would wait for him to return, often going to sleep without him. She always left a glass of water on his side of the bed and crisply ironed pyjamas lying on his pillow.

Some nights she would almost feel his presence next to her, his breath so light she could not feel it. Some nights she felt his body pressed against her own, curled into the curve of her back and the hollows of her bent knees, warming her. Next morning she found his sheets barely dimpled, his pillow still plump.

But on other nights the crescent moon would set on her emptin-ess and she would drift into its absence, forgetting that one side of the bed remained empty. But each and every night she knew he was there, tied into his pyjam-as by the drawstring around his waist. He always returned to her, late most often, a late person, her late husband. He always left before she was awoken.

Happiness is an elusive thing, he would say while she wept in her sleep. Then, one evening, she pulled the sheet over her head and, suddenly, she was not. When he came home he found a dent in a pillow, a night gown folded neatly on the bedding and an empty hollow on his side of the bed.

She often wondered how she coped. Each morning she would awaken and he would be gone, pyjamas folded neatly and left on his pillow, his glass of water untouched. She would wait for him to return, often going to sleep without him. She always left a glass of water on his side of the bed and crisply ironed pyjamas lying on his pillow.

Some nights she would almost feel his presence next to her, his breath so light she could not feel it. Some nights she felt his body pressed against her own, curled into the curve of her back and the hollows of her bent knees, warming her. Next morning she found his sheets barely dimpled, his pillow still plump.

But on other nights the quarter moon would set on her emptiness and she would drift into its absence, forgetting that one side of the bed remained empty. But each and every night she knew he was there, warm in his pyjamas, the drawstring around his waist. He always returned to her, late most often, a late person, her late husband. He always left before she awoke.

Happiness is an elusive thing, she would say and he would weep while she slept. Then, one evening, when he came home he found a dent in a pillow, a night gown folded neatly on the bedding and an empty hollow on his side of the bed. He pulled the sheet over his head and, suddenly, he was not.

She often wondered how she coped. Each morning she would awaken and he would be gone, pyjamas folded neatly and left on his pillow, his glass of water untouched. She would wait for him to return, often going to sleep without him. She always left a glass of water on his side of the bed and crisply ironed pyjamas lying on his pillow.

Some nights she would almost feel his absence next to her, his breath so light she could just feel it. Some nights she felt her body pressed against his own, curled into the curve of his back and the hollows of his bent knees, warming her. Next morning she found his sheets barely dimpled, his pillow still plump.

But on other nights the waning moon would rise on her emptiness and she would drift into its absence, forgetting that one side of the bed remained empty. But each and every night she knew he was there, tied into his pyjamas by the drawstring around his waist. He always returned to her, late most often, a late person, her late husband. He always left before she was awoken.

Happiness is an elusive thing, she would say and she would weep while she slept. Then, one evening, she pulled the sheet over her head and she was not. When she came home she found a pillow plumped and a crisply ironed night gown folded beside him as he sat, waiting, on the bed in anticipation of her late arrival.

He often wondered how he coped. Each morning he would awaken and she would be there, as he left his crumpled pyjamas on his pillow and his glass of water untouched. He would long for his return, waiting to go to sleep with her. She always left a glass of water on his side of the bed and crisply ironed pyjamas lying on his pillow.

Each night he would feel her presence next to him, her breath so light he could just feel it. Some nights he felt her body pressed against his own, curled into the curve of his back and the hollows of his bent knees, warming her. Next morning he left his sheets barely dimpled, his pillow still plump.

But on other nights the new moon would be invisible through her emptiness and he would drift into its absence, forgetting that one side of the bed would soon be empty. But each and every night he knew she was there, tied into her nightgown by the lacing across her breasts. He always returned to her, late most often, a late person, her late husband. He always left before she was awoken.

Grief is an ever present thing, he would say as she wept while she slept. Then, one evening, he pulled the sheet away from her head and found he was not there. When she came home she found a pillow plumped and crisply ironed pyjamas folded beside her as he sat, waiting, on the bed in anticipation of his late arrival.