Alex Jamali

Snores

The nights here are red. An anxious red, I tell you, a fever of anxieties. You don’t believe me. It’s because you’ve never seen it. It’s because you sleep through it. I say. I wouldn’t sleep through something so bright, you reply. But you do. And your tone annoys me. I drop the subject and turn off the light.

I watch how easily you fall, fast, fast slumber, alone in my bed.
I crawl back in. You hardly move. I take the pillow from your chest, careful not to disturb you. You’ve come all this way. It’s hard, but it was I that beckoned you to a world of starless nights and tempered sheets. It’s a kind thing you did. I am overwhelmed with tenderness. In my best vesper whisper I say, ‘thank you.’ Lie down I nudge, c’mon, settle side by side. Let us lie and rest our feet.

Instead, I listen to you snore. I know I need a rest. I emulate your breaths. Perhaps, if I copy what you do, I, too, will sleep. But then you stop. Your heaving sighs are halted. I think of the dust at the foot of the bed. I hope you’ll open your eyes and see me. I’m in desperate need of company, illuminated by the red and the blue. But, faithfully, you start again, and I write some words on a piece of paper.

‘So I’m listening to your breathing,’ I imagine telling you, ‘and you got this awful habit of breathing heavy and then stopping.’ I bet that you’ll like this story. I can tell. Your eyes will be gleaming, right about to smile. What do you think I will reveal?

‘So when you stop breathing,’ I will tell you. You’re excited, ready to burst. I’m tempted to delay the punch-line, curious to know how much air you can hold, ‘it’s really stressful because I can hear the tip of my sharpened pencil, scratching on the paper.’

But really, I listened to you breathe. I listened to you breathe for many hours last night. While my legs were stretched out, I turned and I placed my hand upon your chest. How do you sleep so soundly? How do you sleep with me when I can’t sleep at all? You breathe and breathe and breathe and then you stop, like you’re about to die. And I just wait for you to breathe again. You’re silence makes me restless. I’m already restless, sitting on the floor, sitting by white walls, listening to someone who sleeps.

Last night I put my hand upon your chest. I wondered if you were shaking or if I’ve got a shaky hand. Be still, I urged, and I press with my palm. With my palm I listened, hard, to your breaths. It’s your soul, I thought. It’s your soul in your body. Your snoring is your soul, not quite able to get out. Not quite able to rid itself of this matter. In my excitement, I almost woke you up. I almost laughed. I thought then, how ridiculous it was. How silly I am. I thought your snores were the vespers of your soul.
    
    “I want to paint your picture, baby.” He hands over his card.
    “Thanks, I love religious iconography on my chest,” She replies.    
                (Conversation overheard in a Chicago bar)