Sleep: A short story
The book slips through her fingers. She lets it. She does not care. She is asleep. Her fingers, they hold the book so easily. But they let it go just as well.
She looks at me, through slits, the smallest amount she can open her eyes and still be a little asleep. Her other hand, not the one that dropped the book, came towards my arm and gave it a little squeeze. She was done. This is all I would see of the full life tonight. She was signing off in the dark.
I reached over and turned off the light on her side of the bed. I let the book lay next to her. I knew in three or four hours time she would wake, and she would either put it away herself or read another paragraph before finding sleep again. She would read this paragraph in the dark, and in the morning or whenever it was she would continue, would not remember having read it, but find it familiar. But if I moved the book and she awoke, she would look for it, and by looking for it wake up even more, maybe to the point of looking at the alarm, of seeing the dull blue LED lights display two or three AM. And she would look at these numbers and blink, once or twice, and be angry at herself for finding herself here, in bed, with me. So I don’t touch the book.
Her hands come together, clasping. Her breathing is steady, unwanting. I can see just a little leftover mascara on her rested eyelid. It’s proof enough of life, that we live. In the morning, I’ll tell her about it. But tonight it’s a reflection. And some nights, you just want to hold on to whatever you can.
