(via langleav)

Insomnia

“I woke up with the realization that my wife was fucking another man,” he said. “I woke up, and I just laid there. She was turned on her side, because she always sleeps on her side, unless of course she’s sick, and then she lays on her stomach. But she usually sleeps on her side. Anyway, I heard her short breaths, I knew she was dreaming, and then she let out the faintest murmur of his name - ‘Drake‘ she said. And then I knew. She was fucking a Drake.”  He took a sip of his Coors Light and stared. I’d never seen a face so pale, and I’d never seen eyes so somber. He kept sipping his beer as if it to, was capable of simply walking away to go a fuck a Drake. “Can I get another?” he asked. “Yes. What did you do?” I asked. “Nothing,” he said. “I did nothing. I just laid there. Staring at the ceiling. I’m not a Drake. I’m a Michael, and I’m the one who always sleeps on my back. My wife only sleeps on her side, unless of course she’s sick, and then she lays on her stomach. It’s only when she’s sick though. Only when she’s sick.”

“Chardonnay please, the best. I plan on having a few and I cannot wake up tomorrow knowing that I had them.” She was a thin woman, the wrinkles along her lips revealed years of inhaling cigarettes and accepting the same apologies for the same mistakes. I poured the glass, and I could feel her watching me intently, as if she knew something I didn’t. “You are young, I can tell, and I shall teach you a lesson.” Shall. “A man who sleeps on his back is not a man worth living for.” I really couldn’t think of anything to say aside from, “Oh?” She smiled in that way people smile when they aren’t expecting a response more than two letters. “Yes. It means they’re rigid. They’re uptight. They make love too hard, and attempt to please too soft. Their character is the same. Their strength is just as inconsistent as their love. They’re timid and cowardly yet equally overbearing in order to compensate for the ever impending loss of you.” She was digging now. Digging straight into my eyes and heading for the warm matter of my mind. I can’t remember if she even blinked. “They will hold you as if they know they’re going to lose you. Eventually they do just that.” Finally she broke her stare, and took a long gulp of our best Chardonnay. “You see, I sleep on my side. It’s comfortable and it protects me from the hideous sight of the ceiling. That ceiling has this…giant…em, crack and water stains and squashed spiders, and I have told my ‘husband’ over and OVER how I cannot stand that ceiling and he just sleeps on his back. Accepting this broken, dilapidated excuse for shelter. Even when I’m sick I sleep on my stomach! 25 years we’ve lived in this house. 25 years I’ve slept in the same bed, staring at the same wall just to avoid what’s above me. Or I suppose what’s in front of me.” She took another long gulp of her wine, the glass nearly finished, and stared. I’d never seen a face so pale, and I’d never seen eyes so somber. “Well, what is it that you want to do?” I said. She smiles. “I would like to sleep on my back.”