For the third day in a row, I woke with a headache. It’s a persistent bugger that starts somewhere between the base of my neck and my ears, and rises so that all of the pain settles at the top of my head. It’s made me irritable. I snap at the kids. I snap at Eric. I snap at the dog. I lay in bed until well past eight o’clock, an arm draped over my eyes to block out the slivers of sunlight that cut through the closes curtains. Eric brings me coffee, just as he does every morning, and I keep my eyes closed, pretend to be asleep and hope that he doesn’t try to wake me. He sets the mug on our wide headboard, the familiar clunk of an oversized ceramic mug on our unfinished bed. He doesn’t touch me, he doesn’t call to me. I will let the coffee get cold. I want him to believe I am still asleep, I am still dreaming.


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