His eyes cracked open, not moving, the mask pulled tight on his face, irritatingly tight, hisses, the pressure, 11 psi holding his lungs open. Laying still for a moment, the pain in his right shoulder was intense, side sleeping pain; it was there every day.
He left the mask in place, knowing the ruse it provided him. He rolled onto his back, glancing to his right, the pain transferring from his right shoulder into his spine as he felt his vertebrae separating, aching and laying still a little longer, indulging in the ache as a relief.
Lifting both his hands, thumbs flicking the magnetic clips on each side of the mask, clicking in unison. The straps fell away, the pressure on his face, his chin releasing. Sliding his thumb under the mask, he pulled it away from his face, lifting the straps and the airflow tube over his head, placing it easily upon the pump, and hitting the power switch. All in a fluid, familiar motion, having done this hundreds, if not thousands, of times over the last five-plus years.
Rolling further to his left, the relief in his spine and right shoulder coming at once, he spooned his wife, draping his arm over her. Such an odd thing, not grasping her, not wrapping his arm around her, simply draping it over her. He knew, or told himself, she liked it. It gave her a sense of security.
Breathing now, without his machine, he relaxed somewhat, not alarmed or concerned that it would make her uncomfortable. The airflow venting from his mask chilling her neck would not cause a chilled muscle, an ache that would last all day.
He pulled her closer. She was awake; he knew it, but the two, their closeness comforting, did not speak. They lay there in silence, comfortable. He didn’t want it to stop; he could lie there all day.
But there was no way of keeping it at bay.
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