I stretch out and when my arm brushes against Kate’s empty place, my good mood crumbles like shortbread under the heel of a size forty-four boot.
She must be in college.
I grab my cell phone sitting on the nightstand, my eyes aren’t open yet, and I text her:
“Yo, my little wife… is everything OK?”
Fortunately, my phone is set to predictive text, because typing the message with my left hand is tedious.
The answer doesn’t take long:
“Hello, my little husband. Yes, everything is OK. You have apple pie on the table, the coffee has been programmed and will probably still be hot when you wake up. There’s also Ibuprofen: you take two. Kisses.”
I smile like a fool.
“Ah! My wife! You really deserve that I eat your p***y tonight!”
I’m laughing as I press the send key. I imagine her already
