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I woke up inside her this morning.

Leading up to that, we were just acting like a couple anyway. She'd leave her phone or keys somewhere, and I'd pick it up and hand it to her.

I am currently still wearing her clothes back at the van, as she insisted she wash what I was wearing upon arrival; this meant within an hour of seeing her, the suggestion of a shower meant I was naked in her place.

We shot porn together while a couple, so this is less of a deal than it could be.

This was always going to be a fraught exercise. One doesn't just bounce back from nine years of divorce, but my dad's death last month cracked the door open.

We watched TV, played card games, and she always made sure I was fed. She also got me back into smoking, which is a regression.

The problem is (and we can infer the reasons for the divorce, here), we're equally stubborn, which can produce some unexpected results.

So it was with this trepidation that I boarded a Lyft for an hour away. I'm not one to think of life in binary terms overall, but in this case, this would either be a failure with emotional consequences or a success with emotional consequences.

It was the latter.

She unexpectedly had to work both mornings (the reason for the timing hinged on open enrollment having just ended), so we just went about our business. At one point, she gave me her debit card to pick up some toilet paper.

We burned some wood in the fireplace last night. I'm in her pajamas, we're playing cards, she's insisting that if there's anything else I need to charge, she has extra cables.

The sorts of things one does not do with an ex happened both nights. We know each others' bodies too well. It's not about the orgasm, it's about the touch. She, uh, makes me twitch violently when she finds exactly the right spot on my back ... or uses her mouth on my neck or ears.

In turn, this turns her on, and so now we have a problem on our hands.

This was supposed to be over, but in under 30 minutes of arriving we're interacting as supportive, reasonable spouses do? And then a few hours later, well, no need to get further into the physical aspect.

Had it remained physical, it would have been a successful couple of days. It did not. Didn't even start there.

It instead was, while relaxing (I seriously needed this), this overarching sense of "this isn't done yet."

I know why we can't work, which makes this that much more infuriating. I had to remain silent while she talked with one of her boys on the phone last night. I'm persona non grata in her family.

No need to delve into details, but I had my computer at our kitchen table my Mom bought us while surrounded by glued-up puzzles we did together.

She ordered lunch for delivery today (most of which I thankfully still have) by thrusting her phone in my face and telling me to find something.

Dear god, that screen. I recently had to swap phones because of mine, but this was a damn-near-unusable mess. So, I reach into my bag and tell her my Pixel 6 Pro doesn't have the best display after sitting on it, but it's at least not cracked and with a gaping hole in the top centre of the screen.

Long story short, she now has my old phone while I wear her clothes.

This is not what you expect from a divorce nine years ago.

Also, we met 16 years ago tomorrow, and she's going to pay for my phone service for another three months once I can get back into my account, as she fucked up the password thrice when trying to do it herself.

It's quite depressing to be back in the van after two days of a warm body in bed that turns out to be fiction when the Lyft arrives.

She helped me with my bags, we deeply kissed, and then I returned to reality.