My bed is the site for most of the writing work I do. I don’t go to cafes and listen to music, or go to the library. I don’t like sitting with strangers, or sitting in uncomfortable chairs, or worrying about buying more coffee or more mediocre pastries. I like being alone. I like working for hours straight, getting up to make some soup and an espresso and coming back to bed to watch 15 minutes of bad television before getting bored and going back to work. I like the smell of my boyfriend’s clothes near me and of home. Sometimes I take photographs, I paint, I rearrange the furniture, I spend hours procrastinating on Facebook or blogs, or reading a book I’ve already read a dozen times. I like when my roommates walk in and collapse on my bed and tell me about their days.

My boyfriend does sometimes have to tell me to go outside because if I am really getting somewhere I don’t leave the house all day. This has become a sort of joke and not joke since on days I don’t leave the house all day he seems to be able to tell by some tone of mine, or shift in posture or affect totally unrecognizable to me. And I think he worries I am becoming a hermit or a depressive. And I’m okay with that.

Beds are for romance and sex. Good sex. Long hours of fucking and falling asleep and waking back up to touch and kiss and fuck more. And for writing. Drinking coffee. I miss my bed often.