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86 The Closest Your bed is the easiest to remember. The boxspring too small for the frame, we never knew when it would collapse. Without warning it dropped away beneath us, as did the one great thing we held here, below the breastbone for each other. The mattress was its own nightmare. Canoe-like, we arose hammered, our spines with aches reminding us of past loves, residuals of failed promises. No matter how early in the morning I’d finally come to bed, you were there, your supple, gorgeous—yes, gorgeous— limbs waiting for me to double immediately behind you until our chests rose and fell in unison on the same sea. You’d leave me unconscious in mornings. I’d wake there in your room—your most private space—where you trusted me. I made that bed, darling. I did. Alone. I did it with a care I don’t have for my own life. The sheets and covers militarytight , the flat pillows laid at the head, the frilly ones over them. The small, decorative pillow placed between those, balanced on a corner. Last, the beaded shawl spread tightly, covering up the place we were closest. ...

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