I had originally planned for a more substantial entry today, but my morning was filled unexpectedly by stomach troubles.

The main thing he missed was the comfort of her. They had been together so long that he was used to the way they fit together. Perhaps it had not been the best fit, else they might be together still, but sometimes the comfort of that to which we are accustomed can be substituted for that which actually fits well.
He missed the warmth of her in the bed next to him at night, and the knowledge that when he got home from work on her days off, she would have dinner ready. He missed both their conversations and the silent moments that they shared, understanding each other despite the lack of words.
They never fought, really. He didn’t have much bad to say about their relationship except that they had only ever been comfortable — or maybe content was a better word; and to him, comfort and content, while pleasant, did not equate to happiness.
He wouldn’t say he had been unhappy with her. He hadn’t been sad or angry or anything like that, most of the time. He had just existed in a state between happy and unhappy, where he didn’t really feel much of anything. It was sort of like sitting in a bath that was just perfectly body temperature. He wasn’t so cold that he was shivering, but neither was there enough warmth for the water to feel good.
It came to be that he wanted something happier. Perhaps this was a form of discontent, but it was hard for him to recognize. Still, it was enough to drive him forward, out of comfort and away from her, out to try to find something more in a less-than-comfortable world.

One thought on “Comfort

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