After Forty

Fucking cats.

A grown man should have his own bed.

I'm sorry.

It's the sobering truth.

Because my partner and I are often on different sleep schedules.

And because I suffer from "the vapors."

And because I "sleep normal" about as often as I "talk normal."

Love is a god. Sure. But Sleep is too.

Love your lover when you're awake.

Sleep alone.

Sure, when you're twenty go ahead and wrap your sylph-body around your lover's sylph-body.

When you're forty, you'll understand that a big bed all to herself was probably the real reason Eve wanted to get the hell out of Eden.

Satan really whispered the word "pillowtop" to her when he was that Serpent in that Tree.

Lately, Dru ends up my bedmate.

So. Consequently.

My skeleton feels like an auto wreck today.

Don't move your legs there.

Your arm can't go here.

Don't flex your knees now.

Every time I start awake, he's somewhere else.

EYELID SNAP....

"What made him think the cradle of my knee could be a hammock?!"

EYELID SNAP...

"What the fuck is he doing behind my neck?!?"

EYELID SNAP....

"How the fuck does he manage to occupy three-quarters of a queen-size bed when he's nine inches tall?!?"

I'm one of those people whose sleep (when filmed from above and played in fast-forward) looks like someone on fire.

And it's fine. As long as I'm unconscious.

But add a cat to that and somehow it should be an inner circle in Dante.

Dru gets to enjoy unconsciousness.

I don't.

How he gets that deep in sleep.

I'll never figure out.

I swear he has a bottle hidden somewhere round here.

But every time I snap awake he's somewhere else.

It's too idealistic to think these movements are his "accomodating me."

Probably he's visiting the food dish.

Every fifteen minutes. All night long.

And retrieving that bottle.

String out the window?

More Lost Weekend tricks?