Sleeping Habits

Sleeping alone has changed me. I have always slept with one arm raised beneath my pillow, my head resting on the pillow with the added support of my upper arm below it, but in the last five years I have developed some unfortunate habits.

After the rare mornings of shoulder aches became the occasional mornings of shoulder aches, I must have subconsciously made the decision to change sides several times in the night. Whenever I awake briefly from sleeping (which seems to happen every two hours or so these days), I roll onto my other side, raise my other arm beneath the pillow, and go back to sleep. I've become quite adept at it, and it has become a sort of spin and flip maneuver that I do.

This upsets women. This will need to be remedied should I ever find someone that I wish to spend more than one or two nights with.

In the dark, I hear a huffing sound beside me. I realize this is coming from a warm, attractive woman in the bed. I close my eyes tighter, watching the lights dance underneath my eyelids.

"Is that going to keep happening?"

"Yes," I say. I've responded at exactly the same time that the realization that I've just spun and flipped onto my left side forces my eyes open. It's strange, I think, that my response didn't come shortly after. I shut my eyes again.

"I should probably get going."

"You should probably get going."

"It's already eleven-thirty."

I try to stop thinking, to clear my mind and stay upon this fragile precipice, but the thoughts keep coming. I hope the blinds are shut tight enough that light doesn't spill in. Of course they are, otherwise light would already be in. 11:30 is light outside and I would know by now if light was spilling in. I hope she doesn't open or jostle the blinds as she gets her things. I hope she can find everything without light. I hope she doesn't want to talk or need a pen or some kleenex or something.

I have very little success trying to stop these thoughts. I roll onto my back and stare at the ceiling, dark gray in the gloom. I try not to look her way, but she's beautiful in the dark as she pulls her black panties over her hips, as she bends down to pick up her black shirt, as she buttons her black coat.

I don't know what color these articles actually are. They all look black in the darkness. I shut my eyes. Some urge creeps up that makes me want to say something, to thank her, to ask her what she wanted to be when she was a kid, to tell her that everything will be okay for her, that everything will work out. I don't know why, but I want to talk. I shut my mouth.

She leaves, and I try to remember which side I had meant to roll onto.