She’s sleeping on the couch.
There’s no where else to sit in the sparsely furnished living room of my fourth story flat, and I just don’t have the heart to wake her. So I’m sitting on the floor eating a bowl of stale fruitloops.
I bet she doesn’t know it, but she sighs in her sleep. It’s a little sound you’d hardly hear above the noise of, say, a television. But it’s so perfectly charming. It’s a little sound I wouldn’t mind waking up to for the rest of my life, to be perfectly honest.
A year ago, such thoughts would have scared the crap out of me. But this girl. This girl who listens to Bob Dylan and the Beatles and can’t carry a tune and loves to dress in red and sighs in her sleep – this girl, sleeping on my couch, something about her just makes me happy to be alive. And I figure that’s got to count for something.
She stirrs, and I’m afraid I’ve awoken her somehow. But she turns, settles. And I sit on the floor eating my fruitloops, waiting for her to wake up to the rest of our lives.