staceybooks

It’s 11:52 PM and I want to sleep. I deserve to sleep. I’ve earned this sleep with a long day of productivity, adulting, and pretending I wasn’t silently screaming inside during a meeting.

But no. Sleep has left the chat.

Why?

Because my husband’s phone screen is apparently set to “Solar Flare.” I can see it glowing through my eyelids. I’m not even facing him and I’m still squinting like I just looked directly into the sun. He’s probably scrolling through TikTok, YouTube, or whatever every 49-year-old man is addicted to this month. But to me, it’s personal now.

And I can’t shift away from the light because I’m being held hostage by our dog, who has gently parked herself right under me like a weighted blanket with fur. Every time I move, she moves with me. She’s not growling. She’s not mad. She’s just… attached. Emotionally, physically, spiritually.

Meanwhile, at the foot of the bed, our other dog is snoring like a congested lawnmower. And farting. Consistently. Like his butt is performing a solo in a jazz band. My husband? Completely unbothered. Blissfully asleep.

TV? Still on. Volume? Borderline concert level. And of course, the remote has fallen out of his hands. He’s out cold. Why? Why do this to yourself? You started a whole show and now you’re off in dreamland while I’m listening to bad acting and fake explosions.

I finally whisper, “Kiss me,” hoping for a sweet end to a long day.

He gives me a dry little peck on the mouth like I have some sort of incurable disease.

Romantic.

So now I’m lying here, stuck between the light of the sun, the weight of a clingy dog, a jazz-farting snorer, a TV blaring into the void, and a man who kisses me like I might bite.

Love is beautiful.

Marriage is magical.

Sleep is a myth.