It's odd what sleep can do to a person. I swear she was fine when we rolled over, exhausted, off of the couch and into the bed. She was normal, you know, just normal. Like everybody else. Normal.
Here's the great frustration, for me: I liked her before. Nay, loved. You like that? I picked that up from a fancy play she dragged me to. Brighter of us wanted to go but it was the thing to do--there, that, you see? That was what I loved about her. Other things, like she hated to do the dishes and she always made me stomp the spiders in the bedroom but could always inexplicably stomp the spiders in the garage. Things like she snored in her deepest sleep, and she would fight you if you implied it, of course, but if I woke up at two am to take a leak, there she was, purring like a two-stroke engine. Oh, she was a thing of beauty. A real piece of work, all insecurities with the joy packed in around the edges. Normal.
When we woke up in the morning, well, when I woke up, that sleep, that too-much sleep, it really changed her. Bouncy. Happy. no fear, no desire, no longing, no buried fear of public speaking, nothing. Gone. All gone. I wish I could explain to you how much I miss her.
If I don't get my Sara back soon, I may have to sleep myself to death.
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Part of me wants to condemn him as a jerk.
ReplyDeletePart of me thinks he's adorable for loving the normal, everyday her.
This reminds me of things, but I'm projecting again, so I'll pretend it doesn't, if that's okay with you.
I'm not sure how I feel about him. I don't know her at all, do I might like her more too.
ReplyDeleteAnd the last line was meant to be symbolic, but might have become too obscure.
Well . . . of what is it symbolic?
ReplyDelete"I don't know her at all, do I might like her more too."
I think you're tired. I'm tired. We're all tired.