My toes leave the warmth of my side of the bed, cross the coolness of the sheets that lie between us, searching for him. He stirs. His hand finds mine and gently squeezes it three times: I. Love. You.
It’s pre-dawn and because Alan prepared the coffee the night before, setting the automatic timer to go off at 5 a.m., the house is filled with the beckoning aroma. As I lie there wishing I could wiggle my nose and make a cup magically appear on my nightstand, Alan slowly sits up, takes a moment to find his footing and glasses, and begins the trek downstairs. He returns moments later and places a mug full of the steaming brew on the table beside me. It’s magical. It’s commonplace.
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