I love sleep
I’ve heard a lot of people say that they would go without sleep if they could, that it’s a waste of time. I would never forgo sleep. I love the ritual and everything surrounding bedtime. I love brushing my teeth. Snuggling under the sheets. Getting bedhead. Fluffing pillows. Staring at the ceiling as I drift into dreamland. Falling to sleep next to somebody I love. I. Love. Sleep.
I sipped on the picnic-plastic cup of my Maker’s and Coke as we passed the dance floor on the way to the men’s room. One of my wingmen for the night asks “You fuck with blow?”
All this to avoid going back out into the crowd, vulnerable, without a Flight Crew, and lots of Mig Ryans and Penelope Cruises performing lines, loops, rolls, spins, and hammerheads in a faded effort to avoid all the Ice Men in the spot.
“I don’t usually pick up black people,” he says. “They’re really mean.”
Wing Two is black.
I agreed with him throughout his monologue, peppering my replies with an occasional “insha’Allah”. It slips in so easily, I don’t know whether he’s absorbed into his monologue and simply doesn’t hear me, or whether he must be incredibly offended that a yuppy-ish Christian-sympathizing white boy would affect such a pretense.
It’s 9:43 a.m. I get a text: “Just leaving o girl place . Were they in the club”.
Smashed. It’s a new term for me.
I lay in bed, hungover, ruminating. ‘This is not the life my father led.”