A small little shift

The covers move beside me.

My eyes are shut - I'm only half awake but I'm listening. Unused to sharing my sleeping space, I wake up at every slight turn (although I pretend not to).

I'm facing the other way, identifying the sounds as they happen: he gets up, t-shirt goes on, picks something up. The door clicks. He walks out.

He pads to the kitchen, there's the faint sound of water running, then he's back.

There's a couple of gulps, then a gentle tap; glass on wood. He settles back, and I go to sleep.

It's a couple of hours later when I wake up, thirsty, squinting at my bedside table.

Then I'm so surprised that I sit up, and stare at the glass for what seems like a minute, but is probably less. I look at the sleeping form next to me, the half full glass on his side, then back to the previously empty glass on mine.

Huh.

It's a few hours later when we're both awake, and I'm wondering if, perhaps, I'd imagined it.

"Did you fill up my glass of water?" I say.
"Yep." he replies.
"Oh." I marvel, like he's just written a book and dedicated it to me, "Thank you."

And he won't know it, but in doing this small, unremarkable thing, there's just been a tiny shift in my brain.

I look at him differently now; this person who woke up thirsty, got himself a drink, and thought I might want one, too.

Some people might remember the day they got given flowers, or a piece of jewellery, received some grand gesture, or a kiss - but as that small, tiny, considerate act sticks with me even weeks later, I think, I will remember this.