There is something to be said for the electrifying buzz of broken sleep. The morning fog has yet to set in, neurotransmitters delivering at full speed. 1 o’clock, 2 o’clock, and then 3 o’clock roll around while I’m still angrily tossing and turning beneath a thick duvet. Do not be fooled for this is no summer’s eve, and the cool air filtering in through the small rooftop window that was cracked opened sometime after the first restless hour trickled past, teasing us with a countdown until morning; if I fall asleep right this second, how many hours sleep would I get? The countdown however is useless in a global pandemic; I have nowhere to be if I am to remain a responsible, trustworthy adult.
I am jealous of the man with routine sleep and his ability to hide his true feelings. I am far too temperamental, my face giving away my distaste for someone before my mouth can. To me this man is an enigma. Perhaps one day I will be privileged to a glimpse of what hides underneath, fragility like shining jewels. There are flickers of this, of course. There are always flickers.
It was over coffee he unveiled the first prizes gem. He doesn’t even like coffee but admired my cup with genuine curiosity.
“You shorten your name?” he remarked over the background laughter of a busy café. The ball was rolling; why did I shorten my name, the gift of a grandmother I was destined to never meet?
He did not see my soft side often at that point; he felt the cry of a wounded animal, but never the scars that came after. Or before. It stirred something in him. He never told me the stories behind a lonely childhood, but acknowledged its existence. At some point the subject changed, the air lighter, eyes getting drier. My eyes, not his. Never his.
For now I am satisfied with flickers, flickers and jealousy of his routine sleep.
Irish Blabbing 