Every morning for thirty-years-and-five-kids, Bill would ask me, smiling: “Sleep well?” It was irritating. Like my scratchy thread-bare slippers.
After thirty-years-and-five-kids, all I could manage was a scowl, and my usual retort: “I’ll sleep—when I’m dead.”
The kids eventually left home and I thought I’d sleep better, but I didn’t: panic attacks, menopause, and all those nighttime glasses of water. So when Bill came home from work yesterday and fell fast asleep fully clothed on the couch (must have been dead tired), my first thought was—despite my noticing his pallid complexion—“How unfair that he can sleep so soundly.”