Sometimes she wondered if her entire bedtime ritual was a waste of time. In her twenties and thirties, all she needed to do was splash water on her face, toss her clothes on the floor, and drop into her waiting bed. Now the damn thing took about two hours, and she still struggled to sleep. So much for sleep routines priming her body for sleep. She was calling bullshit on that study.
Her routine sort of evolved over the years and rose in complexity with each new birthday candle added to her cake. First came the wine and the mindless novel. The wine calms her nerves, and the novel distracts her mind from whatever nightmare plagued her day.
Sometime in her forties, skin care became a priority, and before long, her bathroom counter became littered with serums and creams, face washes and scrubs, lotions, and toners. She didn't know what the hell any of them did, and she certainly couldn't tell you the difference between a lotion and a cream, but it made her feel better, like she was postponing the inevitable march of time.
Soon after the skin care ritual began, she ordered new pajama sets that were flattering yet comfortable. Up to that point, she had been satisfied with a ratty pair of sweats and whatever undershirt she happened to be wearing that day. Before Noah came along, she spent a lot of nights in her underwear, and sometimes, when she missed *him* a lot, she would zip herself into an old gray hoodie with sleeves so long they completely hid her hands and fingers. She slept in that thing for years, but as the decade trudged on, its use became less and less frequent until one day she neatly folded it and stashed it on the top shelf of her closet. It remained there until a stormy night in March, when he finally came crashing back into her life.
She remembered that night. After she finally trudged home from the precinct, still reeling in disbelief, she gently pulled the hoodie from its permanent perch atop her closet shelf. The old, faded fabric felt soft beneath the pads of her fingers as they danced gently along the surface. The heather gray fabric was covered in pills that had been there since the moment he zipped it over her shoulders in the precinct locker room.
For a long time, she sat on the floor with the sweatshirt neatly folded in her lap. Tears fell like rain while she traced every notch in the zipper teeth. The torrent of emotion held her captive, and she felt like she couldn't move, couldn't breathe, for hours. Exhaustion took over, and eventually she fell asleep on the hallway floor with the hoodie tucked beneath her cheek.
She woke before the sun, her cheeks stained with tears and the imprint of a zipper pressed into her forehead. Still exhausted but achy from the floor, she pulled herself from the floor and dragged herself into her room. She didn't think twice about stripping out of all her clothes except for her leggings and slipping the gray fabric over her shoulders. Even the familiar sound of the zipper was comforting. For the first time in ten years, he was home. Her best friend. The other half of her soul. Despite the fear and drama of the night, encompassed in the sentimental warmth of a gray hoodie, she slept soundly.
It had been three years since that night, and it felt like they were finally on the precipice of something more. But tonight, her soul was filled with longing. He'd nearly been killed, and she couldn't rid herself of the crippling fear gripping her heart. So tonight she decided to skip the bedtime routine in favor of a certain gray hoodie.
As she slid the zipper up to her chest, its familiar weight pressed out a sigh of relief. She was beginning to realize that she didn't need the wine and a novel. She didn't need all the anti-aging cream or silky pajamas. She just needed him.