[Starting a new fiction project today, from an idea that’s been kicking around in my brain for a number of years. Pretty sure how this will end, but have little idea how I’ll get there. The story title will come to me eventually, but until then I’ll title each post based on the scene.]
Having trouble sleeping lately. Getting there’s no issue, head hits the pillow and I’m out within ten minutes most nights. It’s staying there that’s the problem. Most nights I wake up around 2 or 3 in the morning, when the city is a petrified forest of silent concrete, and when that happens I can be up for a couple hours. Tried a whole bunch of stuff — turning in early and staying up late, drinking some and drinking not at all and drinking way too much, reading and surfing and listening to music and watching television, exercising, making out or having sex with Darci — nothing’s worked so far.
Most nights when it happens, I wind up smoking, and yeah I’ve tried quitting and that doesn’t matter either. Sit by the window in the living room of my apartment, and smoke until my eyelids begin drooping. The street below is rarely empty, but usually I don’t see more than a single car or pedestrian at any one time, and every one looks out of place and desperate, like a migrating bird that’s overslept and has lost its flock.
Sometimes Darci wakes up too, and comes out to the living room when she sees I’m not there. Her face looks pained when she asks what I’m doing.
“I’m smoking,” is what I usually tell her, because I know that will send her back to bed. And even though she usually doesn’t remember the next morning about getting up, I’ve been staying in my room when my annoying insomnia hits. She’ll stir, maybe sit up, but then I tell her to go back to sleep and she collapses. Then I’ll sit by the bedroom window and smoke a while, as I watch Darci sleep.