The couch was fine.
I have slept in worse places, a patrol tent in the northern territory in January comes to mind, and the back of a truck during the border dispute with Ironlaw pack two years ago when we'd been out for thirty-six hours and stopping wasn't an option. The couch was fine.
I didn't sleep though, and I knew it wasn't because of the couch.
I lay in the dark of Cole's living room and looked at the ceiling and listened to the house settle around me.
She had known.
That was the thing I kept coming back to. She had heard me behind her that night and she had known it was me and she had kept walking anyway. I had assumed, in three years of not knowing, that she hadn't heard. That the distance had been enough, or the dark, or the bond breaking and taking everything else with it.
