The bed is not the field
Where I handle my man has nothing to do with where we sleep.
For years I thought the bed was the place for connection.
That if something was wrong there, something was wrong with us.
I was wrong.
The bed is where we sleep.
The bed is where the children dream.
The bed is where the family gathers on Sunday mornings.
But my space is not the bed.
My space belongs to me.
It moves wherever I move.
I do not wait for privacy.
I do not wait for the perfect moment.
I do not wait for the bed to be empty.
A woman who waits stays waiting.
I can handle my man standing in the kitchen.
At the sink while he makes coffee.
At the desk while he prepares for meetings.
As he passes me in the hallway.
While the little dragon dreams between us.
I can say:
“Come here.”
“Give me what is mine.”
“Now go and scale our company.”
And he will.
Gladly.
Quietly.
Reliably.
This is my space.
It flows around children.
It flows around work.
It flows around time.
The woman who holds the space holds the man.
Not the bed.
The field.
