She fell asleep on the pillows.

He looked at her protesting back. Protesting against the insensitive remarks. Protesting because the back’s neighbour up north had (wanted?) to.

She hated her sleep being disturbed. By mosquitoes. By a noisy environ. By a nosy, errant cuddling hand. By his eyes.

He didn’t mind it any longer. Initially, her relcutance to a shared nocturnal existence bothered him. He was a creature of the night, at his best in the dark annals of the early A.M hours.

Hoping it would wake her, he’d tap the vodka glass a bit harder.

Sniff a little more.

Slurp the juice a bit longer.

Slam the fridge door, lightly.

Snap on the crusty Kurkure chip.

Snake his way through the initial chapters of ‘A tale of two Cities’. Turning the pages. Noisily. 




Slurp. Sip. 




Every glance was met back with the same stubborn, unmoving, unwavering stance. He went back to reading Nothing in the world had changed, as he hoped it would have, in the last ten minutes.

Obama was still leading.

US Economy was receding.

She was still sleeping.

The mosquitoes, though, had stopped buzzing.



The next morning, it would all be magically alright. Every morning he would wake up to the most contented smile.It was worth the lost hours. She grinned and purred like the world’s most satisfied cat.

Ps: Inspired by this


2 thoughts on “Sleep

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