The night is still and her toes are cold. He sleeps heavily next to her, an example of all beings on the block: all beings in the city, save a distant and faceless few. She feels out of place as she slips around his arm and off the bed, but instinct takes over. She's not a night person; being so alert at such an hour feels peculiar, but sleep is its own animal and can never be forced to come. She has spent a few hours trying to tempt it with lazy thoughts and a snug comforter, but clearly her brain has other plans, and her toes concur. Apparently, they only thought so far as to get her out of bed, for when her feet hit the carpeting, her brain shuts off completely and for a second she hangs in thin air, not sure what's next.
A quick glance back to him proves he's still sound asleep, his chest rising and falling steadily and his sandy hair in his face. She doesn't linger for fear that her heart will override whatever intricate plan her brain has for her and she'll end up back under the covers, with him, but still unable to sleep. Silently, she crouches, slowly bringing her slim legs to a squat, and peers under the bed. A small decorative box lies amongst dusty moving boxes. The bitter winter wind howls against the window as she gently blows on it and removes it carefully with both hands. It's not a particularly delicate box but the trite measure seems fitting.
The lid creaks a little and tilts open. Her eyes flicker upward again to check if he senses the disturbance. He is either deep asleep or very good at pretending, so she brings her concentration back to the box. A stack of photos lie inside, their edges crisp and fresh, telling the story of her life in reverse. On top, pictures from just a few months ago, a pair of beaming fools gardening outside a newly bought house. She flips a few more back, placing each photo at the bottom of the stack, past a summer getaway and a birthday or two, until she reaches the image that she now realizes has been tugging at her memory all night, one taken just after she had been proposed to... the first time.
And there they are. The man she once loved and the relationship she once believed in. His arms are around her waist and he's grinning triumphantly. She stares at the photo as if to evoke some kind of emotion, but none comes. She can't say she never loved him, because she had, and for a very long time. Still she feels distant, as if these were characters in a book she once read. Though she remembers the facts, they don't seem to apply to her reality, the one with the man on the bed and this house and their life.
She moves to put them away, because it seems evident that whatever catharsis she was agitated for isn't coming, but a familiar voice stops her.
"Pam?" he croaks groggily, slowly positioning himself to face her. "What are you doing?"
She considers brushing it off and returning to bed, but just as she opens her mouth to say something, he leans over and brushes his lips against her forehead. "Oh, I... was just... looking at pictures?" It comes out as more of a question.
He mumbles something while rubbing his eyes. "Now?" he repeats.
"I couldn't sleep."
"Mmmkay." He stretches by pulling his arms up above his head and yawns. "Is there anything wrong?"
"No, I'm just... feeling nostalgic. You know," she says nonchalantly. She can't say his name right now. They still only say it while joking.
He gazes at her for a minute as if waiting for conformation to go back to bed. Their faces are a foot apart. A sliver of the moon escapes the blinds and her hair glows at the edges. Her curls are loose and frizzing and all he wants is to bury his face in them. She recognizes this look and knows that whatever plan her brain had to venture down memory lane is to be thwarted by this tall man in blue flannel pajama bottoms.
She adjusts a strap of her tanktop and drops the box on the carpet underneath the bed, unable to break his gaze. It lands on its side and spills the photos in a neat, diagonal row; the thud causes her to look down and stifle a giggle. Suddenly, the bed seems so inviting, and cleaning up the pictures a tedious obligation. She gets up from her squat and crawls onto the bed, a smirk on her face. He chuckles as she climbs on top of him, perching herself on his abdomen by straddling it with her knees. Like a shawl, she wraps the comforter around her arms and begins to lean in for a kiss.
Three inches away, her hair brushing the sides of his face, he stops her. "Why do you wear shorts and a tank top in winter? It's negative ten degrees outside."
She raises her eyebrows, lets go of the comforter, and rolls off to his side. "Good night," she says gently, finding a comfortable position facing the wall.
He inches close to her, tightening their spoon and resting his arm on her side.
"The cold is supposed to make you cozy. You're supposed to get a better night's sleep that way," she says matter-of-factly.
"Well, apparently not," he says in his deep whisper, almost directly into her ear.
"Hey, it usually works. I was just weird tonight."
"That's probably it."
"Plus, I think there's something wrong with the thermostat."
"There probably is."
"I slept in this morning, too, so I bet that threw off my sleeping schedule."
"It probably did."
His sentences are slower and quieter and she can tell he's falling back asleep. She waits a full ten seconds before answering, before breaking their taboo. "I was thinking about Roy."
He breathes into her neck and plants a quick kiss there. "Yeah."
She doesn't know if that means he knew all along or if he just understands. But she falls asleep anyway.
Author's Chapter Notes:
I've been posting all of my LiveJournal fic here because I finally got the guts to. This was written earlier this year.
It's sort of weird. I was trying to explain that weird feeling, when you can't sleep because something from your past is in the back of your mind and you let yourself pursue thoughts about it as a way to let it pass, but you don't feel nostalgic or emotional... you just can't sleep. I often get up in the middle of the night and look at my old diaries to reminisce, but end up feeling nothing, because I'm over those times and I'm an entirely different person now.
Anyway, I own nothing. Not affiliated, not even remotely.
*
amorous is the author of 3 other stories.
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