Standing over the bed, watching her sleep, I wanted to remember her just as she was. Beautiful, calming, sexy. Who was my wife dreaming about? Who was she making love to in her mind? Was it me…

Her phone was on the nightstand, her laptop was on the kitchen table, her iPad on the bed next to her. I didn’t know what was on them, if they were locked, if they were evidence. I’d stared at each on of them, ran my fingers across the keyboard of the laptop and watched it come to life but I just couldn’t be that man. Did I want to be the man that looked through my wife’s things? The man that needed validation that I was enough for her?

Fuck! I wasn’t that man!

I wasn’t that man… but insomnia had a way of making even the most logical and sane of us…

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