The last guy I dated, I couldn’t sleep next to him.  After sex, I’d doze for a bit, perhaps, but in the end, I’d find myself crawling from his arms to sleep on the couch.  I’d always find my way back between the sheets in the early dawn.  The real sleep, the vulnerable hours of my deepest dreaming, was spent elsewhere, away from him. On our vacation, I spent the dead of night in the bedroom next door. At the time,  I thought this was an ultimate consequence of a life spent in a single girl’s bed, the final straw.

But my new guy, I sleep with him just fine.  He’s worried that his snoring keeps me awake.  I assure him that his rhythmic breathing doesn’t bother me at all – and it really doesn’t.  That’s not snoring. I’m glad I own my tiny queen bed – no room for us to separate. I smile when he spoons me, feeling his warmth along my back.  I need his hand on my hip or my foot on his calf, a gentle reminder that he is there, and I sleep soundly, completely.