I woke at dawn, draped in the barest bit of sunlight and her arms.

As the light pulled me from my sleep, I could feel her nestled in the nape of my neck. As usual, she’d stolen all the sheets in the night and left me bare as a newborn, save for the parts of me wrapped in her. 

My rise did nothing to disturb her comfortable slumber. Every morning was the same. Me up with the dawn and her still lightly snoring away.  Most people don’t get up that early unless they have to, but as ever, I was restless. Slowly, I slid out from beneath her and put on my robe. I stopped to stare for a moment. She laid naked and content in our bed. Her hair was a tangled mess, almost as knotted as she was in our bed sheets. And yet she couldn’t have looked more amazing to me. 

The devil in me begged me to wake her. 

Unfortunately, I had work to do. The night before, her temptation had lured me to our bed and away from the chapter of the newest book I’ve been working on. It was a good idea at the time. Frankly, it’s always a good idea. But bills don’t get paid by living out your desires. Well, I guess they do for some people, but that would be a tough sell with her. Gently, I kissed her cheek and left her to what I hoped were dreams of me.

I began my morning ritual. A quick, cold shower and a glass of orange juice got me out of the mood for love and ready to work. 

Unfortunately, the words were fighting me. I’m not one of those men who can sit and put out fifty pages a day. Sometimes I have to wrestle with my mind to get them out. Many times I lose that battle. But I’ve been behind on my deadline and as much as I wanted to get up and play, I needed to focus. I turned on a mellow playlist to get myself in the mood and then tried to lose myself in Fleetwood Mac and my pages.

After two hours, I reached a stopping point. Just in time, as the smell of bacon and eggs wafted in from the kitchen.

We ate in silence. There was nothing that needed saying between us. That’s one of so many things I love about her. So many women need to fill the silence with nonsense. But she’s a singular woman. And this was the one instance in which we were alike. No patience for small talk. She speaks when she has something to say.  

That particular morning, she had nothing to say until after breakfast. Her fingers ran lightly across my freshly shaved scalp as she informed me that she needed my help in the shower.

Two hours later and we were finally ready to get on with the day. She claimed she wanted to take a Sunday drive.  She was so sure she’d had me fooled.  It was just an excuse to get me out of the house.  Her plans would have been thoroughly ruined if I refused, so she gave me the puppy dog eyes.  I hate it when she gives me the eyes.  And yet in four years, it’s never failed to get her way.

Pistons pumped and my bike roared as we pulled onto the road. Her arms gripped me tight and her head leaned against my back.  The wind ripped through me as we wandered ten miles down the road to a wine bar she likes.  She protested at first. She didn’t want to drink, but she couldn’t say why.  Her complaints died when I called her bluff and suggested we head back to the cabin.  She needed me gone for at least another hour. So she had a drink… or two. More than she intended.

I pulled my little Canon camera out of my bike satchel. She hates all the photos I take of her.  She always acts a little embarrassed, but deep down she likes the attention. And she loves me.

The two glasses of merlot relaxed her and she felt more comfortable as I continued to take photographs. After a while, she stole the camera from me and asked a waitress to take our photo together.  She slipped up and told the waitress it was a special occasion.  As a gentleman, I declined to follow up on it.

Just then she got a text and suddenly decided we should head home.  The wine had drained her of her sense of subtlety, but I played along and we left.

On the ride back, I chuckled to myself as I tried to get in character. I didn’t want to disappoint her, so I needed to act surprised.  Of course I knew what was about to happen.  

Next week is my fiftieth birthday.  I’d told her all I wanted was for her and I to take a road trip across the country.  

As a boy, I’d been fascinated by stories of Jack Kerouac, Allen Ginsburg and their friends touring America.  Curiously, I’d never gotten around to reading On the Road. But that wasn’t the point. It was the idea of it.  And several years ago, I’d told my best friend that I wanted to finally take that trip for my fiftieth birthday. That was all I really wanted, I’d assured her.

Yet she’d convinced herself that this was me being coy and determined to surprise me.

Admittedly, she’d done a good job. But unfortunately, I’m too paranoid to totally get something like this past me. As a writer, my job is to observe. She’d been acting squirrely for weeks. Secret phone calls and booked hotel rooms nearby. There were only two possibilities. Either she was cheating on me or she was throwing me a surprise birthday party a week ahead.

What else could it have been? She had probably gotten her sister to set up the party after we left the house. We got back to the cabin seemingly normal and lifeless. 

She practically pushed me through the door as she tried to hide her drunken giggles.

I feigned shock and awe as best I could as almost everyone I loved yelled “surprise!”  

They were all there. Not just our closest friends and her family. But my family as well.  My brother stood to my right with his wife and kids.  She’d even flown out my Mom, who held back, not wanting to be a bother.  I pushed my way past everyone else to give her a kiss on the cheek.

I admit to crying.  It happens a lot easier the older I get. But these were the good kind.

Once the greetings had been dispensed and long hugs had ended, we all went out to the back patio. In lieu of a cake, she’d gotten Tres Leches, my favorite dessert.

She sat on my lap and handed me a slice with a single candle.  “Make a wish!” she cheered.  But I didn’t need to.

I’m as happy as I could ever hope to be.