That night, there was no cold.

No cool breeze to tickle her the wrong way. No moon, to shine on her face and brightly, in her eyes. There was no one beside her, to toss and turn, to push and pull her away and close at a whim, to murmur and loudly snore in the night.

The house made no creaking sounds. There was no fear of intruders or ghosts. There was no distraction by television (too late) or book (already read). No chore that could not wait were left to be done, and no bedtime ritual was forgotten. Every tooth and hair was brushed, every inch of skin washed, every once of flesh soaked and relaxed. Oils had been used, and salts, and gently-foaming soaps and lotions. Nothing distracted her from pampering every inch of herself.

So she was alone in bed, with no regret, no laziness, no dread. It was her, the pillows, the blanket and one broken promise.

And that was why her eyes were wet and her heart was heavy. And why she could not, not for hours, bring herself to sleep.

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