Nick put his T-shirt over his eyes. I asked whether my reading lamp was bothering him. From underneath the shirt, he said, "I have put my T-shirt over my eyes."
We had been trying to go to bed at the same time because it seemed like the sort of thing couples were supposed to do. He started work earlier. I liked reading after dinner. The result was one annoyed sleeper and one reader turning pages with the caution of a burglar.
We discussed the actual room.
The next afternoon, when neither of us was horizontal, we worked through what was happening. The lamp pointed across his pillow. My pyjamas lived in a drawer that squeaked. His morning alarm was on my side because that socket worked better.
We had somehow interpreted three small furniture problems as evidence that one of us was bad at sharing.
I took the book to the chair.
I left my night clothes outside the drawer before he went to bed. He moved his alarm. I read in the other room, where I could laugh at a sentence without performing an elaborate silent facial movement.
We kept a little time together before he turned in. Sometimes tea, sometimes the last part of whatever we were watching. Going to sleep at different hours did not require pretending we lived in separate flats.
I still woke him once by dropping my glasses case. There was no arrangement that could completely remove me from the arrangement.
The shirt returned to its usual job.
A week later, he asked what was happening in my book. I gave him a summary over breakfast. He pointed out that I had mentioned three murders and not a single character name.
That evening I read another chapter in the chair. When I came to bed, his T-shirt was on the hook. I put my glasses down carefully.
Story details
First-person account ·
