1.22.2008

insomnia

I haven't been sleeping all that well lately. Despite the daily taking of the Sleepy Time®. I think, at least, that last night's woes were a direct result of having a cup of coffee at 4p. It was so cold and I was so sleepy, I just couldn't resist. Anyway, I woke up at 11.50p (after going to bed at 10.30p) with this running through my brain:

It was a joke between them, the little, green plastic ring with the
almost cartoonish shape of the acorn on top, started so long ago that it
had become less funny and much more sentimental. He had gotten down on
one knee at that tacky seafood restaurant, every bit the grand cliché of
the romantic proposal, but when he opened up the black velvet box,
instead of a diamond, it had been this.

She twisted it absentmindedly on
her finger as she always did when she
was lost.

She had gasped that
night as he opened the box and then fell into a nervous
fit of laughter
that didn’t stop until he kissed her, submerging the sounds bubbling
from her throat with his warm, chapped lips. Even after he had pulled
the real one from his other pocket she insisted on wearing the acorn.
Not on her wedded finger, of course not there, but on the opposite. It
fit quite nicely and drew stares and comments and gave her something to
talk about at those dreadful faculty parties he was always dragging her
to. Had always dragged her to. So, it served its’ function and made
people laugh and reminded her why she had picked him in the first place.
And, oh, how sometimes she’d needed that reminder.

He had promised her forever and then left abruptly, unexpectedly and
meaninglessly. Though, like most of the major events in their life
together, it too had been somewhat cliché. The day he died the world
came crashing down, but of course they’d lived too far away from the
center of the universe to be a part of that. No. He had died in one of
the most pathetic ways she could’ve ever imagined. Slipping in the tub
of all things. Jesus Christ. Stupid. Sometimes she fantasized about how
she could tell strangers that he did die in that terrible… accident(?)
that day when those men from the Middle East did the unthinkable, for
they could believe her, strangers, and she wouldn’t have to feel the
flush of embarrassment creep up from the neckline of her shirt and flood
her face with blotchy redness. Instead, she would be able to hold her
head up regally and distantly describe how she imagined he must’ve felt
in his last moments. Deep down, she felt that a part of her had wanted
to move to New York, less as an escape from their former life together,
and more as a means of making the fantasized death seem more plausible.

I knew I wouldn't be able to get back to sleep until I wrote it down (that's how it works), so I got up, woke the computer from its' slumber and wrote it down. Then I went back to bed and slept until 6a, so you see, it was necessary, apparently. It is interesting how you can see exactly what's been going through my subconscious though, right?

I looked at this morning and decided to wad it up and throw it in the electronic trash. For that is also how it works. And is usually the result of late night musings.

4 comments:

G said...

Well, buddy, I'm not sure why you wanted to wad it up, but I like it. I want to read the rest of the book? Good marriage? Bad marriage? I want more.

Melissa said...

seriously good stuff. ps. how's the beard?

Big Daddy said...

I didn't know you were a writer, too.

Michael5000 said...

Hey, I'll second the above -- pretty good stuff for a middle-of-the-night brain dump. Might be worth developing.