a little nap

Our book club book this month was The Time Traveler's Wife which, I will admit, did not enthuse me. It has the dubious distinction of looking like an Oprah book club book, which in and of itself means little, except betray how poorly I adhere to the "Never judge a book by its cover" philosophy. I have an prejudice against reading anything that has been avidly jettisoned into the mainstream. I acknowledge this is a hypocritical attitude from someone who actually owns the entire Harry Potter series.

(I liked the covers.)

It took several attempts to pick up The Time Traveler's Wife; I would read two pages, put it down, and then feel disinclined to pick it up again. On Sunday night I made a last attempt at 11:30 pm. If it didn't take this time, I was going to put it down and not bother. 10 pages. I would read 10 pages.

I read 10 pages. And then I read another 10. And at 2:30 am, with the Guy sound asleep beside me in bed, I finally finished it.

This was unfortunate for the Guy.

Without going into overmuch detail about the book, I will briefly describe it as a "tragic love story." I normally loathe tragic love stories with the violence other women reserve for cockroaches or small white maggots in the rice (more on that later). Unfortunately: wee hours. Weakened emotional response. Sleeping Guy. I found myself wracked with anxiety (that he might die in his sleep, that he might already be dead, what I would do without him, how our as-yet unborn and unnamed -- and goddammit we were not naming any of them Clever Li -- children would grow up without a father) with love, with a chaos of conflicted emotions....

I started out by staring at him, just to impress on myself how much I loved every pore on his round bobble-head face. This was not satisfying. Adoration is not a fulfilling experience if it is not actively returned. I poked him a few times to see if he would wake up and adore me. He whimpered. I felt a spasm of guilt. It faded. I poked him some more.

When this was not productive of anything more than a few moans and another whimper, I attempted to adjust his body so I could rest my head on his shoulder. This roused him just far enough for him to make a protest. "What's happening?" he asked, plaintively.

"Nothing." I patted his face and adjusted his body some more, a procedure to which he submitted more from bewilderment than compliance. "Just go back to whatever it was you were doing."

He mumbled a little; I planted my head in his shoulder, and he went obediently back to sleep.

And then I changed my mind. I didn't want to have my head on his shoulder. I wanted to have my head on his ribs. I prodded him a few more times and inspired another groggy, "What's happening?"

"You know I love you, right?"

"Mumabuf." He started to flail a little. I dove in at the opportune moment and made myself comfortable. He whined like a stomped puppy and fell asleep again.

I stared up his nostrils for a few minutes, then changed my mind. I didn't want to be sleeping on him. I wanted to be sleeping on his arm, on my side. I started to move his bits and pieces around again.

It was almost 5:00 am when I finally fell asleep, having experimented with more positions (platonic) than were ever dreamed of in the Kama Sutra. I woke refreshed. The Guy, mysteriously amnesiac regarding the previous night's doings, complained of feeling tired. I wondered aloud if he was coming down with the flu and puttered off to work, leaving him drooping over the computer.

They say you always hurt the ones you love.