Night Sweats

After dinner with his parents, he drank too many beers, woke up with cold sweats, and slept in until noon. She drank water, counted six empty beer cans, woke up to him taking a shower, and waited four hours for him to wake up. When driving on their way home last night, she said she wanted him to be healthier. Once they got home, he ate sour gummy worms and smoked a joint. She knew he didn’t like his mother. Now, she faced his recovery.

Three days now, he’s slept in and napped. Each day, she reminded him to get his pills refilled. When suggestions aren’t heard, one feels cut off or stranded. She shouted her wishes, and only an echo bounced back.

Today, when the clock hit 9 a.m., she woke him up. She shook his shoulder, kept asking him questions, drew back the blinds, opened the windows, shook his leg, and shook his other leg. All he did was moan and roll around. Her efforts slid off his back as if it were lathered in oiled.

She left the bedroom and busied herself by sorting old mail and receipts. Like an ICU nurse, she checked in to see if he awoke. She was disappointed. His medication needing a refill sat untouched on her coffee table, two pills left. She wanted him to be better and feel better, but how appropriate was her help? Was she helping in the wrong way? Was she making things worse? Her wishes seemed wasted on her sleeping partner.

She had no way of reaching him. She’d hug him when he was sad. She’d cheer for his wins and on good days. She’d ask him to drink more water, but she never saw the change she wanted to see in him. However, she’d never know how much change he made by meeting her and loving her.

While cleaning her spotless stove top, she heard her boyfriend toss and turn, shifting the blankets back and forth. As if rocking a boat, his motion was enough for her to stop scrubbing.

“Babe,” his voice cut through the morning breeze coming through the windows.

She tossed her sponge and speed-walked to the bedroom. He sat on the edge of the bed, his head in his hands and the blanket thrown onto the floor. She knelt down before him and placed her hand on his arm but pulled away at the sign of sweat. She sat back and really looked at his body. Hair stuck to his temples. Beads dripped down his face. Legs shaking.

“I can’t stop thinking.”

She sprang back up and hugged him like she always did. However, this time, she felt her shirt dampen. While readjusting her embrace, she told him he’d be okay, trying to cover up her discomfort. She then berated herself as she rubbed his back. Only her body felt uncomfortable, while his mind never stopped playing cruel tricks on him.

Then, he pulled his arms around her, unlike his usual vice grip. To inspire him, she held him tighter. “Have you ever tried grounding yourself?” She asked him, her voice in his ear.

“No.”

“You name things you see, touch, hear, feel, and… Damn. What’s the last one? Come on. Taste. Things you can taste.”

She waited to feel his voice in her ear. All she got was shaky breathing and hands clawing to stay wrapped around her, so she let him go and looked at him again. He was crying. She saw this the night before. She could handle it again. Remembering the day she picked him up from the downtown conference center with six lanes of heavy traffic and a broken navigation app, she knew her tears would only make matters worse.

She looked past his head. “I see the tree outside the window.” He remained facing forward. She patted his knee. “I can feel your skin.” He flicked his eyes to her hand and then to her eyes, locked in for half a second before turning away. “I can hear my fridge humming in the other room.” He nodded. “I can smell someone grilling outside.” He hugged her.

“I’m sorry,” he said, squeezing her with renewed strength.

“There’s no need for that.” She broke her promise and plotted how she would wipe her eyes without him noticing.

“Thank you.” As he loosened his hold, he let go of an imprisoned breath. She mimed a bug flying around her face. “Are you crying?”

“No.”

“No lying.” He blew into a tissue.

“Fine,” she started. “But only good tears.”

“How can they be good?” He handed her a tissue.

“You got your strength back.”

After a long day and longer night, they were back on air.

He got up to shower, and she planned to make the bed. She stopped at the touch of damp blankets and sheets. Tomorrow, she would do laundry. She couldn’t bring herself to wash his episode in front of him, the washer and dryer rinsing and spinning, driving them mad. Now, she was afraid that thought was insensitive.

She scurried to the bathroom, added her clothes to his, and joined him in the water and the steam. His surprise quickly vanished as he stood to the side to let her stand beneath the showerhead. Once her hair was wet and pushed back, she hugged him. They swayed, no concern to wash their hair or clean their bodies. They only had thoughts of each other.

Once satisfied, they turned off the faucet and dried off. They dressed and made their way to the couch. 

Their parents would have said they wasted the day, doing nothing else but watching TV. They wouldn’t do laundry. They had no plans for dinners. Although the weather was nice, they didn’t notice. Their batteries were low. For him, his mind never stopped running until it ran out of juice. For her, her heart pumped all the extra love it could into him. They were recharging, one snuggle and “I love you” at a time.