She woke up to the sound of “please… please”… Murmured, gasped, begged all together. By the time she was groggily out of her own dream, the shape that was earlier lying beside her was standing; balancing unsteadily on the cushiony bed.
Please…, he said again
There was no light. From where she lay she couldn’t even see his silhouette. But had felt his breath, and the smell of his skin, waft away from her. She could feel that the voice looming over her was ready to walk away. Where to? She reaches over and meets his ankle with her palms. Come back, it’s okay. You are dreaming.
He sinks down into the pillow almost as stealthily as he had got up and is back asleep even before her arms could coil around his neck; embraced and a kiss planted on his sweaty forehead. His breath steadies and he has crept back into that faceless noiseless place where she was not allowed. Where no whispered whimper could tell her what he was thinking. And no amount of imaginary role play could fill in the gaps.
Sometimes – when she was more awake that she was right now – she would imagine how his thoughts looked. The words, the colors, the crooks and crannies that make up these nightmares when he’s asleep. She imagined a grey brain; the kind she’s seen in glass jar filled with formaldehyde in science labs and his thoughts are balloons stemming out of it like that which comes out of the heads of comic book characters. She wonders about the twisted knots of this mind and those that probably form in the pit of his stomach when he’s very silent.
When his body slouches in sleep, it’s her turn to step off the edge. Into dreams full of curiosity. The blanks that get filled in her dreams leave more gaping holes than before. Much time has not passed between her transition from passive oblivion to teary wakefulness but, to her, it seemed all too real – and too long.
By now the sun is already rising behind the thick curtains on the windows. Outside life would kick start back to normal very soon, just like it does every day. But the eerie remains of the night that has not entirely passed remains in the crumples of the bed sheets. The shape beside her is clear now, the face lit by the blush of dawn. Thoughts of superstitions and morning dreams lull her back to early morning sleep. But this time it is she who is not aware of her lips parting; breathing in a murmured plea
Letter to an imaginative thyroid gland - Dear Ms. Gland, I hope this letter finds you in the pink of health Or at least a few shades closer to happiness than you were after our Monday meeting that...
4 years ago