raspy with simulated exhaustion. “The mattress is too soft. I’m going to take the living room sofa for a couple of hours so I don’t keep tossing and turning.”
At first, I accepted it without a second thought. Evan worked long shifts as a structural engineer, climbing scaffolding and crawling through damp industrial basements all day. His body was battered. I would kiss his cheek, murmur my sympathy, and roll back over, listening to the soft scrape of his bare feet against the hardwood floor as he made his way downstairs.
He did it once a week. Then three times a week. Then, eventually, every single night.
Every night without fail, right around midnight, Evan would slip out of our bed. And every morning when I woke up at 6:00 AM to start the coffee maker, I would find him stretched out on the living room
