The Lost Bed

His steps are carefully measured, small and soft and slow.  Each lift of a foot creates a moment of tension.  His breath catches, his body quivers.  He is nearing the end of the hall and he is hoping for a mistake.  A creak of a floorboard, an untimely sneeze, a nightmarish bark from the sleeping basset hound dreaming under the end table.
         He pictures her face from the morning, before he left her.  She'd been asleep, her head resting peacefully on the sunlit pillow, her golden hair framing her face in a halo.  she didn't stir as he kissed her cheek and bid her goodbye.
         The suitcase in his left hand is heavy, packed for a week in New York.  But he never got on the plane.  And now the bedroom door is drawing steadily closer and his dread is mounting, becoming so overwhelming that he has no choice but to pause, to regain some composure.  He takes a shallow breath.  he closes his eyes and quickly opens them as a wave of dizziness washes over him.  He is beginning to feel sick.
         Swallowing hard, he begins to move again.  His hand grasps the door knob and turns.  The door swings gently in.
         The curtains had been left undrawn, the moon is full and bright shining over their garden.  Its light bathes the room in a silvery glow as if to cast a spell upon its occupants.  All is still, all is quiet, frozen in beautiful slumber.
         There she is , angelic and soft in the innocence of sleep.  He feels a pang of love at the sight ... but a man is laying sprawled out beside her, his figure stretches over the bed in a carefree, arrogant manner. 

A strange man in a bed which can never be reclaimed.