Between Sleep and Awakening

The mug fits comfortably into his hands, hot with a thin fog of steam that tangles into the air, dissipating into an invisible vapor.

“Cream?” she asks, gently grazing his shoulder with a tender touch that said, hello, I love you. She did this effortlessly, darting between the fridge and stove, a whirlwind of mechanical movements as she stuffed a bagel in her mouth. A swift click as she checked off the daily schedule, followed by a harsh thump as she kicked the dishwasher closed without missing a step, and poured herself a cup of coffee. All while managing to remember the fleeting thought that he might appreciate a splash of cream. Magic. It was nothing short of magic, He thought.

“Not today.” His voice was sharp. The words clogged in the back of his throat, and each syllable seemed trapped in a constant teeter-tottering between sleep and awakening. A state he couldn’t ever remember entering or leaving.  

“How did you sleep?” she asked, steadying herself in her spot as if she wasn’t a tidal wave that had just overtaken the entire room. Beautiful. She was just like the day they met. She smiled from the opposite side of the counter. Brown eyes, soft and gentle, filled with a warmth that made the atmosphere brighten and glow as if she called forth the sunlight. The dim kitchen bloomed with a yellow light that illuminated the small corners, the old pictures on the wall, the knickknacks she had collected over the years, and glints of light coiled around her silk hair that curled just below her shoulders. His wife. Blinking, he didn’t know what to say; without recollection of the night, he sat there stumped. Perhaps this is for the best. He smiled back and refused to look away from her.

           She bit her lips and tapped her mug. “Honey….” Her smooth voice cut the silence. “You’re staring?” She says, blushing, turning into her cup.

He looked away, his heart still beating fast like it had all those nights ago when they first met. It wasn’t the heat radiating from the steam that had him flushed; no, he knew what it was. It was always her. Thirteen years ago, she had stood facing him at the opposite side of the party with a pair of unforgettable brown eyes with rich warmth trapped inside. Chewing on her lower lip, her gaze drilling a nail into his skull, the pressure of her watching slowly unraveling him. Stripping him apart bit by bit as if she was finding out everything there was to know about who he was, just with her eyes. He felt naked. She was intimidating, staring at him past a red solo cup leaning against a mettle beam. She smiled, finally blinking as the neon lights beamed right into her eyes, breaking the lock she had on him. But it was too late, and he was trapped. The rest of the party faded away, the lights and the music gone, standing in silence, and at that moment, all that was left was her and those brown eyes.

           He did as she demanded and walked up to her.

“Rebecca,” she said, her eyes brightening as he closed the space between them. Rebecca smelled like candy, and glitter trailed up her bare shoulders.

“Rebeca.” He mused.  

She laughed, hiding away in her drink and taking a long, harsh sip of the clear liquid. “Hm… this is the part where you complement me.”

“You have the most beautiful eyes…” he said as she demanded.

           Rebecca looked up. From her coffee mug, no more glitter on her skin, and the scent of candy perfume was replaced by lavender and warm vanilla. The world wasn’t cloaked in toxic neon lights but bathed in the warmth of the rising sun. She smirked. “Thank you. You’re not so bad yourself.” She says. “But I was asking how you slept.”

He shook his head at the vague memory of showering and brushing his teeth, a fog in his mind barely an image he could muster to recall, and past that, the reality of curling up into bed between her neck and the loose strands of hair that tickled his eyes and nose were nowhere to be found. He shrugged. The lingering fog of sleep clouded his thoughts; he looked up into brown eyes. The Kindness inside them wrapped around him with the heat of a blanket as she waited for his answer. A shrug was never good enough. Rebecca always got what she wanted, and he got to have her. 

“I woke up, so that’s a start,” he smirked, forcing a smile while the moment’s reality nudged at him. The laughter, the warmth, and the gentle light that filled their kitchen felt tangible yet ungraspable, like wisps of vapor slipping through his fingers. Love fluttered between them, and it was as alive as ever, but her eyes seemed to dim as the sun grew brighter. He leaned on the counter to reach for her hand. An unsettling tether pulled at his heart. He blinked back the feeling, rubbing his thumb on the coarse knuckles. He felt a tug in the back of his mind, A question that didn’t fit. Something so simple that everyone should be able to remember. When did he get out of bed?

A small tear trailed down her brown eyes; he moved fast to it, catching her face between his fingers. “Rebeca?”  

“This is the part where you wake up.”

A bell screeched into the air like a dying cat. He blinked away the sweat and sleep from his red eyes. The warmth of her face was replaced by the wobble of the ceiling fan, and the wailing of the kitchen phone pushed the sight of her, the beauty of her eyes, the smell of coffee and vanilla, and her warmth seemed to spin like a carousel back into his mind. He grunted, sitting on his elbows and looking at the other side of the bed. Empty. Of course, it was all a dream.

           He slipped out of the bed, feet crunching on the dirty floor. Each step towards the kitchen turned his bare feet black. Cups and plates filled the sink, and the stench of unwashed milk stung the air with a sour smell. “Hello.” He said, yanking the phone free from the wall. Wobbling against reality and dreaming.  

“Dad, you’re awake… good.”

He rolled his eyes at his son’s voice. A voice that only calls once a year.

“I haven’t killed myself. You can call back next year and see then!” He barks fingers, gripping the phone tight, the anger of years spent alone pouring out of him and threatening to snap the yellowing handle.

           The sound of kid’s cartoon playing in the background, a mix of voices yelling, was drowned out by the steady breathing of a sad man.  

“You know I miss Mom, too.”

He steadied himself against the wall, pulling the wire closer to him. The other side of the kitchen was dark, the curtain drawn closed, but specks of light flittered, making the dust in the air sparkle. Warmth came from those few specks of light, something familiar and kind. He gulped and sighed. He felt her watching him, even now. Tightening around the phone, he sat at the counter, letting the light graze his hands. “How are the kids?” This wasn’t a dream; no, this was his reality.