Bed

Sometimes I just want to go to bed. I imagine it as me being y-shaped sliding between fresh sheets under a feather-light duvet, not being able to touch the edges. Usually I huddle fetally trying to warm up a body shaped patch of bed while the boyfiend warns me not to put my ice-pole feet on him.

Sometimes I imagine, as I walk up the dark cold street, that the boyfiend has come round to mine to suprise me by cooking my dinner and that when I walk through the door he will greet me with a kiss and a plate of spagetti.

I put my winter coat on today. I was much warmer than yesterday.