'The Sleepless Wife' by David Mark Williams

Thinks he can slope off whenever he likes, give me the slip. I know what he’s up to. He’s like a cat with his hiding places, his nooks and crannies. There’s not a corner of the house he’s not tried. I know them all. The cupboard in the hall under the stairs, the loft, tucked up right in the shadows where the roof meets the eaves, our walk-in wardrobes. One time he wasn’t in the house at all but I found him. He’d taken himself off to the garden shed, slumped on that dusty old chair we don’t know what to do with.

When he falls asleep I can’t bear it. It’s as if he’s gone, gone for good. The corner of the room goes dark where he’s left me. I’m all alone.

I watch him all the time, try to follow him everywhere, even when he says, Oh for God’s sake, leave me be. I have to check he’s not getting sleepy. He’s tired, he tells me. He looks forlorn, his eyes are red. He would give anything to sleep. I ply him with coffee, green tea, chocolate: whatever might keep him awake. I shake him if I have to, pinch his nose, blow air up his nostrils, run a feather over his face. Failing that, I break into sobs that he can hear from wherever he happens to have hidden himself, sobs that rack my ribs, and he rises with a sigh. He comes to sit beside me. He puts a hand on my shoulder. He is kind. He doesn’t know what to do.

I never sleep. That would be to lose who I am. It’s like a little death. I’ve seen the look of it on people when they’re asleep, the rictus, the mouth not quite closed. How can people bear it sleeping their lives away, all those precious hours and minutes wasted?

He says that I sleep. He’s seen me. I go off holding his hand tightly, he says. Then he seizes his chance. He grabs some sleep. I’m not sure whether to believe him. I only have his word for it. I don’t remember being asleep. If I do sleep at all I’m sure I never dream. I’d remember that.

It’s impossible not to dream when you’re asleep, he says. It has been proven. He thinks some-thing must be written in my body to make me the way I am, a memory I have forgotten, a fear of being abandoned. Something along those lines.

It’s not the case. There’s nothing at all like that. I just want everything to be perfect for us. It’s not much to ask, sitting together, looking into each other’s eyes. Even then, I have to keep asking him: Are you awake? I need to know. Some people can sleep with their eyes open.

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‘The Sleepless Wife’ was first published in The Cinnamon Annual Review of Short Fiction in 2018.