To my left, an empty space. There’s a pillow that once had a head on it, a body snuggled close to mine expecting nothing else but to lay in bed all day. But it’s empty now because that body had to go to work. The bed sheet is rumpled in areas where curves once were; the blanket is pushed aside after removal of the being. My left side feels void without you.

To my right, the bedroom. A tv-stand with Q-tips and deodarant, $300 cash pay-back for rent. On the floor lays our miscellaneous things: my dream journal, some socks, various cords and cables, some books which we haven’t read yet. Further out still, the floor is occupied by clothing sprawled in shapes and patterns undiscernable to the female eye. But you always know where things are comfortable. To me, it just looks like a mess.

In front of me we’re still unpacking. Boxes contain video game equipment, more cords and cables; a printer sits on top of it, triumphant as if it holds a flag conquering Christmas Reeses and Nintendo games. Pokemon Adventures, Volume 1, sits lonely next to the computer desk wondering its purpose now that you’ve found the series in DS-viewable format.

This is just one room, but this is our life together. This is the beginning of trials and accomplishments, of fights and bickering ending in hugging and smiling; this is the start of a new world of possibilities - all contained in one apartment room. A few nights ago I told you how wonderful it was that the rooms extending beyond the bedroom door were ours. I said I was thinking of my parents’ house; how easy it would be to sleep in my bedroom there, but that the rooms outside would not be ours, that it wouldn’t be a life together - only a night. But what I was really thinking of was the previous apartment. We paid half the rent but only used two rooms. Our bedroom and bathroom were nice, of course, but the living room was overtaken by evil beasts who looked at us dumbly when we used the kitchen. Now we can walk naked to the kitchen and there’s no one else there claiming rights to rooms and things that are properly ours.

When you leave this empty spot to my left, I am thinking of how exciting it is that tonight that spot won’t be empty. I could fold myself in half and smell the lingering musk you leave on the pillow, I could wrap myself in that position you usually take. Sometimes you tell me that’s what you do after I’m gone to work. Today, though, I’d like to hold you in my mind and think of how wonderful this empty place next to me is. It’s your place, and no one else’s. It’s where you belong.

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