Billup used to spend a lot of time inviting herself into our bed. At three in the morning, she’d come padding into our room, pull back the corner of the covers and shove herself in next to me, all without slowing her pace. I’d end up wedged between Ted and Billup or, more often, tiredly decamping to Billup’s abandoned bed. Sure, her sheets were often oddly sandy, but at least there I had space to roll over without bumping into anybody.
Original photo from cheezburger.com
She finally stopped a couple of years ago, but early mornings and bedtime remained fair game. Every morning, like clockwork, she’d come padding in at dawn and invade our warm blankets with her physical presence and unflagging desire for conversation. At night, I’d be reading in bed when the sound of her bare feet outside the bedroom would suddenly announce her presence. I’d barely have a chance to look up from my book before she’d slide herself into Ted’s empty side of the bed, ahhh-ing loudly. She’d cheerfully announce, “I’m going to sleep here, OK?”, her voice rising at the end as if asking a question—but we both understood it was only a rhetorical one.
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