Craving cutlery

I missed being the small spoon.  If I didn’t really throw my arm over David’s side, I could almost manage the big spoon. But small spoon?  Months had passed since I’d been able to lie on my right side and claim that privilege.

Heavy sighs.  Discomfort.  Near tears… a new nighttime ritual.

“What is it love?” asked David.

“I can’t be the small spoon.” I whispered.  Another protracted sigh.  Pain, less manageable at night, turned me into a whiny adolescent.  I hate being a whiny adolescent.

“Let’s change sides,” David said.

I drew in an epiphanic breath of air. Change sides?  WE COULD CHANGE SIDES?!?  “Quick!  Quick!  Help me up!”

“No, you just scootch over.  I’ll run around.”  And then he did, circling the mattress, as I used my good arm to drag myself across the sheets to his side of the bed.

The blankets lifted for a moment as David settled himself back into the bed.  He then pulled me into the curve of his body, the warmth of his chest upon my back, his right arm looping around my waist, one hand routinely cupping a breast, sending me headlong into Nirvana.

“Oh my God.  So good.  This is soooooooo good.”

He murmured assent into the back of my neck.  His breath, on the back of my neck?  I thought I might expire from joy.

“This is better than sex.”

He squeezed me closer.  “Yeah.”

I snuggled back against him, attempting to glue our bodies together.  “I can’t believe we didn’t think of this before now.”

“Your ask is my demand, my love.”