The king-size mattress was heaved on top of the thick bedposts.
It stood out garishly against the bare walls of their new master bedroom.
The empty room was decorated with only this piece of furniture.
Too large for the small room, the bed sat centered between each wall and left little space for any other fixtures.
The Maplewood legs of the bed dug into the soft carpet, and the tall, heavy headboard rested inches away from the ceiling.
Thin linen sheets were spread over the mattress and covered by a thick, olive-green duvet.
As if an invisible line was dividing the bed precisely down the center, the left side appeared to be untouched, while the right side was wrangled and twisted.

Under the covers, on the right side, lay a fragile figure of a woman.
Her mangled mop of hair draped over her pillow.
Her arms and legs were pulled in close to her chest.
She lay on her right side, so that the arc of her body caved inwards, towards the edge of the mattress.
The white linen sheets were crumpled at her knees, in her failed attempt to kick them off.
The imprint of her body on the mattress crinkled the sheets underneath her, leaving her side of the bed disheveled and unkempt.
On his side, the sheets were smoothed so that no wrinkles appeared to exist on the surface.
The top edge of the sheets was folded over the thick duvet.
The upper left corner was tucked in, so the covers were pulled tight.
The left pillow was sitting up straight against the headboard.
The sheets pressed flat against the mattress, lacking the outline of his body, which was everywhere but there.

If he were to come home, late at night, he would creep in quietly, so as not to wake her.
Lying on his side of the bed, he would situate himself so that his left cheek rested against the cold pillow, his body angled to face the left wall.
His back would remain stiff, his spine parallel to the invisible line in the center of the bed.
She would be innately conscious of the rift.
She would understand that the right half was hers and the left half was his.
She would recognize that her place was here—and his there.
Her side—and his side.
The right: familiar.
The left: untouchable.
His still body and silent breathing would succeed in erasing any indication that he was present.
Then when early morning comes, he would wake up and go, leaving things exactly how they were when he arrived.
He would fold over the top edge of the sheets,
And tuck in the left corner,
And sit up the pillow,
And make sure that no wrinkles appeared to exist on the surface,
And he would go.
When she would wake up, she would swing her legs over the right side of the bed and sit up slowly.
Glancing over her shoulder at his upright pillow and fixed sheets, she would search for the imprint of his body and wonder if it had ever been there at all.

As she slept, though, the bed was solely hers.
She breathed in and out, exhaling warm air onto her pillowcase.
She sank further into the king-size mattress, ensconced by the covers but surrounded by empty space.
His absence, too predictable and too frequent, left ample room for empty space.
The bed, too large for the newlywed couple, left ample room.
For empty space.