Story: A Place to Sleep

It’s been a long time since they slept in each other’s arms, but he wakes at night with her clawing against his chest. It is their first in the new bed. “What’s wrong?” he asks. She murmurs something and he rubs the back of her neck. Shhhh he says softly, until she is awake enough to speak.

The dream is of him dying—not once, but twice. She can’t remember how it happened the first time, only waking in a sweat and pacing at the foot of the bed, questioning whether or not she should wake him. She stands beside the bed and shakes him by the shoulder, although he doesn’t respond. She shakes him with two hands, but still he does not answer. She feels alone in the room. She tries to scream but all that comes out is a weak stream of air. She climbs back into bed still screaming, unable to control her limbs, and lays her head on her pillow. Her legs grow numb, then her arms. She knows she is dying, and then she wakes.

“I thought that people weren’t supposed to die in their dreams,” he says, lying beside her in the dark. He listens with his eyes closed, and the way she describes it, he feels almost as if it were his dream.

“Maybe I didn’t,” she suggests. “Maybe I woke up just before.”

They go back to sleep and when they wake the next morning he is squeezing her. She asks what’s the matter. He says he can’t remember.

She has an interview today, and he sits drinking coffee all morning on their balcony, waiting for her to return. The set of patio chairs is their only furniture besides the bed, and now they cannot sleep. She returns at noon and says they’ve invited her to a second interview on Monday. They have the weekend to themselves.

At night they lie awake. Most recently, he’s died and gone to hell. She cut her wrists to follow, but landed in heaven instead.

“You’re not allowed to do that,” he insists. Something is wrong with her dreams. He gets up and fetches her a glass of water from the kitchen. She takes a sip and asks what he was dreaming about, but again he doesn’t remember.

Saturday and Sunday pass with him in the apartment. She wants to go to the farmer’s market. She wants to try the church. He does not want to go to either of these places and does not want her to go either. He stays home and draws the blinds, wishes the walls were thicker, that there were more padlocks on the door. He does not want Monday to come, but Monday does come, and she silences her alarm clock without waking him. She has slept through the night. This is a good sign. She kisses him on the forehead before dressing.

At noon she returns with a bottle of Andre and a smile, searching for him on the balcony although he isn’t there. She pours them both mimosas, and takes them into the bedroom where he is as she left him. She sits his drink on the nightstand and tries to wake him. He does not respond. She sits her own drink down, and shakes him with both hands, but he just frowns into his pillow. She begins to panic and remembers the dream from several nights ago. She wonders if she is dreaming now. She lies down behind him and wraps her arms around his torso, shuts her eyes and recites a prayer to herself, trying to remember what she dreamed of last night. She cannot. Last night she slept as soundly as a stone, and no matter how hard she tries now, sleep will not find her.