Leave the Moon

I looked over and saw the pillow caving to her form, her face turned down so that only the left cheek was exposed. I watched as the corner of her mouth blew open and closed, tiny puffs of air expelling as though they were bubbles reaching the surface. It was the only part of her that moved, the rest of her motions in a place far away. 

It was a different kind of peace, I thought, and she made finding it look easy.

The moonlight leaked through the curtains and bounced off the skin of my hands. They were held by my lap as I sat upright, having stacked an extra pillow behind my back. I had considered reading—sometimes that helped me settle—but I was feeling stubborn and angry and didn’t want to give anything the satisfaction. 

And so I sat there, staring at my hands. Struggling. Wanting sleep to steal me away before I could notice.  

I realised long ago that it was easy to tell whether the person lying beside you was asleep. Things sound different, they feel different. Their breathing becomes loose, instinctual; like strings being played by a creature whose very hands made the instrument. Their body may wince, spasm, even laugh in their slumber; their reactions to a world which they will briefly, solely occupy. And yet you are the one who is left to feel most alone, an awkward sense of invading their space. The air in that space is still and stale for you. Lifeless. You can breathe it in but it’s not made for you; it’s made for the sleeping one, for their other world, and you’re just living off it like a second-hand life. 

This will not sustain you forever. Or maybe it will, but that’s a terror of its own sort. 

She jolted next to me before rolling onto her back. For a moment I thought she had awoken, ready to rescue me from the choke. I secretly hoped she would but was instantly left with guilt, knowing all too well that a wakeful night is a horrible wish to place in the world. 

The moon holds the conscious mind in a different way to its counterpart; deepens it, distorts it. It pushes fear and gloom into all the quiet places. I thought back to my day, wonderfully ordinary as it was. The office had been calm, everyone seemingly happy with a week's work drawing to a close. The woman lying beside me was happy, too; she was the gem in my days. We had chosen every aspect of our life, had control over the timing and concoction. We had created our happiness. 

And yet…this. Perhaps my happiness does not extend into the night. Was there a limit? 

The moon prodded me. 

I realised I needed the bathroom. My hand reached to pull back the sheets, grateful for a reason to free myself of them. I slipped my legs out and let them dangle over the edge, the pads of my toes bumping over the cool floorboards below. I sat there a moment and felt my dry eyes swell in their sockets. My body moved slowly and quietly, not wanting to wake her. But it was more than that. I didn’t want to wake anything. Not the moon.

Sleep keeps you you. Without it, who knows? And so please don’t anger the maker, I thought. 

The mattress let off a short whine as I made the final push, standing to my feet. My body suddenly felt sensitive all over, the fabric of my clothes itchy and hot on my skin, the strength of my legs lost to exhaustion. Or insanity. Where’s that line? 

No, moon. No. 

The bathroom was down the hall and I began the journey, bending my legs robotically at the knees, lifting just enough so as to slide my feet along. The bathroom had a big mirror that filled the entirety of one wall. I didn’t dare turn on the light and look in that mirror; only all sorts of difficult would have found me there. 

When I was finished, I didn’t want to go back to that room. The idea of it made me sick. I stood by the door but couldn’t convince my body to move through the frame. I could hear her hum on the other side and that seemed to make it all the harder. 

The moon was full as I made my way into the living room. Everything had its shadow; the sofa, the tv cabinet, the corner plant that was getting too large for indoors. I walked around as though I was a tourist. My feet found the centre rug, it’s weave intentionally thin and coarse. It was a piece we enjoyed looking at in the light of day—a reminder of our travels—yet at that moment I had an overwhelming desire to shred it to bits, the patterns and textures suddenly revolting to me, pushing me when I couldn’t afford it. 

My body sat on the sofa and I continued to rub the soles of my feet along that rug. The horrid piece seemed to draw me in and I wanted to revel in the feeling. It, of all things, matched me. 

I spent a long time sitting there—minutes? hours?—and made no conscious effort to move back to the bedroom, yet somehow found myself there. The room felt all the lonelier as I walked back in. Her breathing had deepened, her mind reaching a new level of distance. Away from me. 

I saw that her entire body now glowed in white cotton. The sheets clung to her tightly, moving like water on her skin, submerging her deeper as the night pushed on. 

My side of the bed was closest to the window. I could see my silhouette reflecting in it as I surrendered back down to the mattress. Even in the dark, my outline gave away all my secrets. Defeat. I stared at myself, stared right into my eyes. I did not need light to know where they sat on the image in front of me. And then I let the pity scrub me raw. I begged myself to drift away. It was all I wanted, night after night. I had tried, and hard, but still there I was, sobbing uncontrollably, silently and with my mouth closed so as not to bring her down with me. 

The rest is good—perfect, even. But not this, this thing which I want, I plead for, desperate to clutch and rock-a-by. Without sleep I am left incomplete; it is the thing that all else lives on. Could I be happy without it?

The moon asks gently. 

But it is not yours to have, I tell myself; it is that other person’s; the one in your other world. 

And so I rest my head down, trying—trying—to let them take it.