I always left the blinds cracked, just enough so I could tell whether the sun was up, but not so much that the light ruined the mood. A long, languid stretch. A smug glance at the unset alarm.

It's always Monday, those first few seconds after I wake. There's that initial got-to-go-to-work groan, and then the delicious realization that it's Saturday. Nothing to do but turn over and snuggle against his chest, warm and safe, loving and loved beyond measure.

If I sleep in that bed, I'll wake up believing he's still alive. I'll turn over to curl against him, and the reality will crash down on me with an ache sharpened to a killing point by that instant of blissful ignorance.

Blue and white striped cushions, too narrow to accommodate the illusion that would kill.

The scent of smooth damask mixed with bitter tears.