Short Fiction: Your Shape

I come home this evening and climbed the stairs of my empty house to reach my bedroom. Opening the door I am surprised to see the duvet heaped on the left side of bed as though a person were stretched out underneath. It could be you. It could be you lying under that duvet. There on your side, dozing and waiting for me. As long as I don’t disturb the covers the illusion is real and you remain, sharing the room with me as you sleep. I reach out to touch your hip, to wake you and let you know I’m here. My hand hovers above the duvet, a layer between your skin and mine. I smile, anticipating the contact, the pleasant warmth of awakening. My hand lands and the duvet yields and collapses. It deflates, cold and empty.