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Upon retiring, there seems to be room enough. But hardly have I laid my head on the pillow and begun to sink away into sweet dreamland when I am jostled awake to find that my terrain has been cut by half.
The lady no longer is on the other side of the bed. She has expanded her holdings, advancing beyond the center line to lay claim to a good deal of what rightly should be my part.
It’s impossible for me to recline flat. I am like a mountain climber, passing the night secured with ropes and pitons to a sheer face. If I’m careful to lie on my side, there’s something on the order of six inches, maybe eight, between me and the abyss.
Then the orange cat, Mickey, comes to perch with me on that tiny ledge, demanding to be stroked. My legs have to be drawn up in the fetal position to make a place for the gray one, Tommy, who prefers to rest at the foot.
Another cat, Laika, the gray rescue from Brooklyn, has positioned herself on the other side of the bed, the side my wife vacated, preventing her from going back there, even if she were considerate enough to try.
It is a delicate and dangerous arrangement, and would be entirely unmanageable if the beagle, Buddy, should decide to join us. As you can see, we are not a family in any sensible use of the word. We are creatures in a cartoon.
After what seems an eternity, a faint paleness begins to show in the window.
“How did you sleep?” the queen asks.
“I didn’t.”
“Why not?”
“Because you hogged the whole bed.”
“My half of the blanket hasn’t been heating. The only warm place was in the middle. I had to move over.”
“That’s crazy.”
“I was freezing. You weren’t cold at all?
“Not a bit,” I tell her. “I’m never cold. Just cramped. Are you sure you turned it on?”
“The dial was set on nine.”
I examine the control, press the on/off button and wait several minutes. Nothing.
“The blanket’s no good,” I say.
“It was a good label.”
“Doesn’t matter. We’ll have to replace it.”
She’s starting to make the hateful bed.
“Just a minute,” she says. “Feel this. Feel your side.”
I do. It’s hot to the touch.
Sometime in autumn, evidently, the cords got crossed, with her heat control on my side, mine on hers. From that time, she’s been edging my way — more aggressively with the recent bitter spell. While she’s battled hypothermia, I’ve been too crowded and miserable to notice I was sweltering.
Sharing lives isn’t always easy. Along the highway of even the best marriages, I suspect, there are occasional rough spots to be negotiated.
This pothole damned near buried the car.
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