“You wanna put your mask on and sleep some more?” I asked my spouse. He has sleep apnea and uses a cpap mask.
“But if I wore a mask, no one would recognize me,” he said.
“I would, and Bunny would. We’re who matters the most,” I said.
“Ok,” my spouse said.
“We recognize you by your dick anyway,” I said.
I was giggling. He did put on his mask and sleep a couple more hours.
I thought he was mostly asleep, but I asked him today, and he remembers the conversation.
Does he need the sandman to recognize him? If only a sandman sprinkled sleep-sand correctly. Does he need Death to recognize him and say, “It is not that one’s time yet,” then pass him over, for the night?
Hmm, this is getting macabre. Not a night topic. I imagine Death scraping against the outside wall, dry like a tree branch during a windstorm, before the rain starts.
When I wake up my spouse some mornings, I cling on his back with no shirt on, comforting him awake with my soft tummy and warm breasts. I ask, “Do you wanna wake up, sweetheart?”
“Mmm, brfuhg drrr, huuu. Mmm…” he says.
“Gmorning, lover. You wanna be a person now?” I ask. “You wanna drink some water?”
I caress his naked arms and kiss his shoulder. “You’re so good,” I tell him. “You’re such a sweet lil creature.”
I love him when he’s asleep. That’s the only time I call him baby. “Sweet baby,” I call him. So vulnerable and real as himself, he does seem like a baby, with his body so dear and present, and his mind elsewhere.
He might stretch and start to wake up, or he might cuddle deeper into sleep, stuck in dreams. I could try later.
I wonder if he knows who I am. Maybe at first I’m part of his dream. Or maybe he smells me, and I smell like love, so he knows I’m safe.
Waking up, he hasn’t been mean to me yet. I’m lucky he’s kind when he’s asleep and partly asleep. There are a lot of ways that we’re lucky.