Falling asleep last night (this morning in that uncertain hour when even clubber
s are starting to yawn
) after the wide-eyed stare of insomnia
, I had a moment of panic. Sleeping alone
, trying to fill a bed that felt too big by sprawling sideways in a tangle
of pushed away duvet
and mangled pillow
s, my feet dangled over the edge. It was hot, sticky, humid
night, and it was the only way I could stay cool. (Why is it that you are so much hotter with your feet covered?) Sleep was starting to enfold me, when I heard wicked cacklings
between the cardboard boxes and shadows under the bed.
There were monsters under the bed
. I paused, not knowing if it was wiser to sneak my feet back to safety in smooth and secret movements, or yell, and curl up quick. I could hear them drool
ing. I had a series of Calvin and Hobbes
strips flash before my eyes.
I listened, holding my breath, trying not to think of the fear of the ten year old I was, rushing up the stairs with her eyes closed, to get the attic stairs lights on before the monsters, witch
es and ghoul
s bit her hand.
I rolled up into a ball, and told the monsters I did not believe in them. Nope. Not me. And I thanked my lucky stars there were no cupboard
s in the room to hide the closet monsters
(who are, of course, far more pernicious than any under the bed beasts).
, the black and white cat, curled tight like a squirrel
on a hardback book at my side was unconcerned. I poked her, told her there were monster
s, and she yawned cat-crunchy breath at me, and retucked herself into sleep.
I hate it when snarl