can't sleep

I was cramming for a current events quiz, something I have to do most Fridays around lunchtime, when I saw him. His hair, too long for his taste, was the color of Kalkaska sand, and it had been too long since he'd shaved the stubble from his chin and cheeks. His eyes were brown, his boots were tan, and his coat was desert camo. He adjusted the strap of his bag, an aberrant twilit blue, on his shoulder. I tilted my head and he reacted to my expression.

"Is everything alright?" I asked. "You look--"

He'd been up late writing a paper, then up later fighting the computer and rewriting the paper. Some of his strength was missing. He set his bag by the fireplace and covered it with a heap of beige, topping it off with his glasses. I thought briefly about moving them but couldn't think of a safer place. He asked me to wake him up at 12:40, then buried his face into the crotch of a couch and tucked his toes under the armrest.


I remember asking friends to wake me up. It's happened once or twice this year, but last year, it was chronic. I remember the first time I'd been up late with a paper. I asked Will to wake me up for a 10 o'clock, expecting to wake up at 9:45, and curled up in a chair in the EAR. He woke me up at 9:50 and I panicked. When I stepped out of the chair, I discovered my left foot to be asleep, through my calf and up into my thigh. I put my right shoe on and hobbled to class as quickly as I could, my left sock snagging on the concrete. That night I sprawled out on Amanda and Georgia's floor in Mac, my ears tuning in and out of the Cowboy Bebop playing on someone's computer. "I love how Mary's just so peacefully and angelically asleep," I heard Liv say.

"No," Will said, "she looks more like she's passed-out drunk asleep."


I ate quickly then sat in the chair next to my sleeping friend, clicking through the Washington Post. It was 12:30. I felt a jab in my ribs. I looked up. A red coat.

"I'm looking for something physical, something tangible," he said.

Jeff stole something and you think I have it, I thought.

"Can I have the Constitution reader?"

Facepalm. "I left it in my room," I said.

"There's still time before one."

"I have to wake Jeff up in 10 minutes."

"Ask Asa to wake him up."

I did. I wrapped up in my giant blue coat (and saw my roommate: "are you going back to Benzing?" I asked her, but she was headed to the library) and escorted my friend down the stairs and out the door. I left, but left my conscience on the chair. Something in me reached back.

A few steps outside I realized it was Friday and men are allowed in rooms after noon. I told him where the reader was, asked him to drop off my Latin book, checked my watch (12:36) and hurried to my watch. He was just waking up when I reached the couch.

My gut reaction surprised me. I felt like I had utterly betrayed him by leaving him alone while he slept. I felt like I should have been there making sure nothing disturbed him while he lay there allowing his strength to seep back into him. Apparently something had. I had failed.

I scrambled. "Go back to sleep," I told him. "You have five minutes."

He declined, yawned, and pulled himself up further.

All I could do was move out of his way when he walked around the table.