THeRaVeToY
Bluelighter
And it’s dark, that artificial dark where daylight is filtered down to dim yellow glowing. Curtains are pulled, the only sound is the slamming door downstairs. Children play outside and home base is the welcome mat.
The fish tank bubbles, and the catfish—as is it’s normal habit—is swimming up and down in the front left corner. White belly and long whiskers have been the focus of an intense half-hour. You’ve been sleeping for hours now, but my eyes keep snapping open. Tossing and turning, never quite right, I’m under the scratchy afghan on the lumpy futon, then on the recliner, the floor. Then I’m back on the lumpy futon and you haven’t noticed I’m missing. My side of the bed is cold by now; I can picture you stealing the blanket and you’re probably subconsciously coveting my pillow. The bed creaks as you shift, and you sleepmumble my name. At first I thing you’re dreaming, but you call again. I call back, voice low,
“I can’t fall asleep. I’m just watching the tank.”
And then there’s nothing. You’ve dropped back to sleep, and I’m left with the fish. They’re getting boring. The light’s dimming—the sun’s going down. My eyes rest on the tips of my toes, peeking out into the cold through the knit of the blanket. And then they rest on the CD shelves behind the recliner. Like John Cusack’s character in High Fidelity, you’ve organized them in some way only comprehensible to you. Hmmmm. Misstress Barbara is first: genre, then favorite. Mystery solved. But I’m back on the recliner…
I’m on the futon, and you’re calling my name again. I tell you I’m comfortable, but you’re standing, leaning, in the doorway in your t-shirt, boxers and half-open eyes. You’re giving me that look, and I unwrap myself from the scratchy afghan, feeling cold air hit my bare legs. I follow you to bed, sliding into my usual place—and you turn away from me. Bronchitis, exhaustion, hunger and hormones push that lump to my throat and make my eyes tingle and burn. You’ve pulled me from warmth, relative lumpy comfort and catfish habits to turn away from me, somewhere between loudly breathing and gently snoring.
“Lay close to me.”
I snap back to reality from not-quite-start-of-sleep to hear you ask a second time. Scooting over and putting my arm across your collarbone, my breasts pressed to your shoulder blades; you remain motionless. Do you even know I’m here? I move my arm and you move to cover it, keeping it there. Seconds pass, your arm drops again, and I roll over. You don’t know I’m gone, and I begin to study the ceiling.
You’ve rolled to face me, but I turned away long ago. We’re spooned below the waist, my legs pressed to yours. Glancing over my shoulder, although your eyes are closed you smile, but your arm still rests along your side. “Why don’t you ever put your arm around me?” Eyes open, bleary and still more-than-half-asleep, a half-shrug.
“I guess I just don’t think about it.”
I settle back on my side, watching the glowing green numbers climb. Wry smile tugging at my lips, the irony dances across my mind—
it’s all I seemed to think about.
The fish tank bubbles, and the catfish—as is it’s normal habit—is swimming up and down in the front left corner. White belly and long whiskers have been the focus of an intense half-hour. You’ve been sleeping for hours now, but my eyes keep snapping open. Tossing and turning, never quite right, I’m under the scratchy afghan on the lumpy futon, then on the recliner, the floor. Then I’m back on the lumpy futon and you haven’t noticed I’m missing. My side of the bed is cold by now; I can picture you stealing the blanket and you’re probably subconsciously coveting my pillow. The bed creaks as you shift, and you sleepmumble my name. At first I thing you’re dreaming, but you call again. I call back, voice low,
“I can’t fall asleep. I’m just watching the tank.”
And then there’s nothing. You’ve dropped back to sleep, and I’m left with the fish. They’re getting boring. The light’s dimming—the sun’s going down. My eyes rest on the tips of my toes, peeking out into the cold through the knit of the blanket. And then they rest on the CD shelves behind the recliner. Like John Cusack’s character in High Fidelity, you’ve organized them in some way only comprehensible to you. Hmmmm. Misstress Barbara is first: genre, then favorite. Mystery solved. But I’m back on the recliner…
I’m on the futon, and you’re calling my name again. I tell you I’m comfortable, but you’re standing, leaning, in the doorway in your t-shirt, boxers and half-open eyes. You’re giving me that look, and I unwrap myself from the scratchy afghan, feeling cold air hit my bare legs. I follow you to bed, sliding into my usual place—and you turn away from me. Bronchitis, exhaustion, hunger and hormones push that lump to my throat and make my eyes tingle and burn. You’ve pulled me from warmth, relative lumpy comfort and catfish habits to turn away from me, somewhere between loudly breathing and gently snoring.
“Lay close to me.”
I snap back to reality from not-quite-start-of-sleep to hear you ask a second time. Scooting over and putting my arm across your collarbone, my breasts pressed to your shoulder blades; you remain motionless. Do you even know I’m here? I move my arm and you move to cover it, keeping it there. Seconds pass, your arm drops again, and I roll over. You don’t know I’m gone, and I begin to study the ceiling.
You’ve rolled to face me, but I turned away long ago. We’re spooned below the waist, my legs pressed to yours. Glancing over my shoulder, although your eyes are closed you smile, but your arm still rests along your side. “Why don’t you ever put your arm around me?” Eyes open, bleary and still more-than-half-asleep, a half-shrug.
“I guess I just don’t think about it.”
I settle back on my side, watching the glowing green numbers climb. Wry smile tugging at my lips, the irony dances across my mind—
it’s all I seemed to think about.
