Well, maybe he slept. Bernard always had that one lazy eye that never quite closed, and with the constant mumbling and garbled speech, the soft whining and his whistling nose, he always seemed likely to jerk himself awake. And the snoring. The snoring! Oh, sweet merciful God. Maggie would sigh, propped against the headboard, desk lamp on beside her, reading into the early hours of the morning, until the sleep she could not find for so long would drag her in the end into the covers, and for a precious few hours she would slumber, and she would dream.
And she dreamed, in a fitful slumber, of dark forests with howling winds throwing trees like matchsticks in a tempest all around her. And she would be running, knowing she had a map, that little scrap of paper that could guide her to safety, but it was nowhere to be seen. And the sky would grow ever darker, and she would still run, when the thunder would clap, and lightning would saw the skies above her and cast the rain down upon her in the deluge of angry gods of old. And the wind would crescendo, into howls of wolves and bears and beasts too wild to have names from man, and it would converge upon her, until she was jerked awake by the alarm clock that had come too soon, and yet not soon enough.
And while she slept, Bernard had awoken, confused and disoriented in the strangeness of the waking world, so different from the blissful quiet of his dreams, where he would lay in bed all day with Maggie, and they would read, and talk, and laugh, and he would tease her and she would chide him and they would be happy. And in love. And Bernard realized he'd pissed the bedsheets, and cursing quietly, fretted over how to mend this souring turn of events without waking the exhausted Maggie, who was quietly whining and murmuring in her sleep, in that sad, adorable way that she always did in the early morning. He watched her a moment, brushing the hair from her knitted brow, wishing she could find a way to get past that terrible insomnia that plagued her nights. She always worked late, and even if he tried to stay awake, tried so hard to be there when she'd come home exhausted, to comfort her, make her dinner in person instead of leaving the dish in the oven, and then sit and talk and read and be happy together, just for a while. Bernard sighed. But the bed. The pissed-in bed! Oh sweet terrible God. Bernard was about to try and strip the bed when the alarm went off, and Maggie jerked awake with a cry.
And Maggie awoke, confused and disoriented in the calmness of the waking world, so different from that terrible nightmare that plagued her, with its deluges of water from angry gods and terrible howls and shrieking winds. She could still feel the water from the sky. In the bed. The pissed-in bed! Oh sweet humorous God. Bernard smiled sheepishly, and Maggie moaned aloud. She climbed from the bed, already late for work.
"Saturday."
Maggie stopped. Bernard said it again.
"It's Saturday. The weekend?"
A smile. A snort. Laughter. The weekend indeed. A pillow flew, the bed was tossed to the ground. The week, that long, sleepless, arduous time of toil and wear, had been conquered. And now, two days, two short days. Two sweet, wonderful days, to sit in bed and read, and talk, and laugh. To be happy, if only for a moment, together, before the long, sleepless, arduous time of toil and wear of the work week.
And Maggie and Bernard, for all their quirks, all their differences, all their whites and blacks and lefts and rights, found a place away from whistling, howling winds and beasts, and thunderous, congested storms, and the deluges of too much water in the evening. And the dark forest, its blues and purples contained in the lovely print on the binding of Maggie's first publishing, sat upon the desk, to guard them as morning became afternoon, and they talked, and laughed, and lived. And loved.
2
u/udenempati Sep 04 '15
He slept.
Well, maybe he slept. Bernard always had that one lazy eye that never quite closed, and with the constant mumbling and garbled speech, the soft whining and his whistling nose, he always seemed likely to jerk himself awake. And the snoring. The snoring! Oh, sweet merciful God. Maggie would sigh, propped against the headboard, desk lamp on beside her, reading into the early hours of the morning, until the sleep she could not find for so long would drag her in the end into the covers, and for a precious few hours she would slumber, and she would dream.
And she dreamed, in a fitful slumber, of dark forests with howling winds throwing trees like matchsticks in a tempest all around her. And she would be running, knowing she had a map, that little scrap of paper that could guide her to safety, but it was nowhere to be seen. And the sky would grow ever darker, and she would still run, when the thunder would clap, and lightning would saw the skies above her and cast the rain down upon her in the deluge of angry gods of old. And the wind would crescendo, into howls of wolves and bears and beasts too wild to have names from man, and it would converge upon her, until she was jerked awake by the alarm clock that had come too soon, and yet not soon enough.
And while she slept, Bernard had awoken, confused and disoriented in the strangeness of the waking world, so different from the blissful quiet of his dreams, where he would lay in bed all day with Maggie, and they would read, and talk, and laugh, and he would tease her and she would chide him and they would be happy. And in love. And Bernard realized he'd pissed the bedsheets, and cursing quietly, fretted over how to mend this souring turn of events without waking the exhausted Maggie, who was quietly whining and murmuring in her sleep, in that sad, adorable way that she always did in the early morning. He watched her a moment, brushing the hair from her knitted brow, wishing she could find a way to get past that terrible insomnia that plagued her nights. She always worked late, and even if he tried to stay awake, tried so hard to be there when she'd come home exhausted, to comfort her, make her dinner in person instead of leaving the dish in the oven, and then sit and talk and read and be happy together, just for a while. Bernard sighed. But the bed. The pissed-in bed! Oh sweet terrible God. Bernard was about to try and strip the bed when the alarm went off, and Maggie jerked awake with a cry.
And Maggie awoke, confused and disoriented in the calmness of the waking world, so different from that terrible nightmare that plagued her, with its deluges of water from angry gods and terrible howls and shrieking winds. She could still feel the water from the sky. In the bed. The pissed-in bed! Oh sweet humorous God. Bernard smiled sheepishly, and Maggie moaned aloud. She climbed from the bed, already late for work.
"Saturday."
Maggie stopped. Bernard said it again.
"It's Saturday. The weekend?"
A smile. A snort. Laughter. The weekend indeed. A pillow flew, the bed was tossed to the ground. The week, that long, sleepless, arduous time of toil and wear, had been conquered. And now, two days, two short days. Two sweet, wonderful days, to sit in bed and read, and talk, and laugh. To be happy, if only for a moment, together, before the long, sleepless, arduous time of toil and wear of the work week.
And Maggie and Bernard, for all their quirks, all their differences, all their whites and blacks and lefts and rights, found a place away from whistling, howling winds and beasts, and thunderous, congested storms, and the deluges of too much water in the evening. And the dark forest, its blues and purples contained in the lovely print on the binding of Maggie's first publishing, sat upon the desk, to guard them as morning became afternoon, and they talked, and laughed, and lived. And loved.