What Dreams May Come

This is my problem, not his. If I just wake him up, which I should have done long ago, he'll apologize and probably offer to move to the couch or something.

I'm so filled with anger that there's no room for anxiety about how to phrase it politely or how he might react. I'm going to do it. I'm going to confront him.

I feel a surge of elation. It's empowering to realize I can overcome my crippling, lifelong conflict-avoidance issues simply by working myself into a murderous rage. I should write a self-help book.

I walk from the bathroom back to the bedroom and shake his shoulder.

"Brad. Brad!"

"Huh?"

"You're snoring."

"I am?"

"Yeah. It's been keeping me up. All night."

"Oh. Sorry," he says. But he doesn't sound sorry. He just sounds like he wants me to stop talking.

"Don't worry," he continues, yawning and rolling toward the center of the bed. "You'll get used to it. You just...kinda have to...tune it out..."

His words trail off as he falls asleep in the middle of speaking them.

I consider going back for the toothbrush. I'm confident I can convince a jury of my peers that it was a justifiable homicide. Maybe I'll even get a cool nickname out of it.

********

4:22 a.m.

He's still alive. For now. I chickened out.

I am standing over him, but instead of holding a shiv, I'm holding a cup of warm water. It's as close to body temperature as I can make it. I know it's a shitty way out of the situation, but I don't care.

It was my giggling fit earlier in the night that inspired the idea. I'd almost peed myself. That would have been embarrassing, no?

I walk to my side of the bed and pull back the comforter. I lower the cup to the mattress and start to pour it about six inches away from his crotch. A wet circle spreads outward, darkening the sheet and, through the magic of capillary action, soaking the fabric at the front of his boxers. The water is warm enough that he doesn't even notice.

I return the cup to the bathroom, then quickly slide onto my side of the bed, where it's still nice and dry.

I wait a few minutes, then sit up and push the comforter past his waist.

I narrow my eyes into a squint, as though I'd been sleeping, and try my best to sound like I'm half-awake.

"Brad? Brad?" I shake him until he stirs.

"Seriously?" he sighs. "What is it now?" He sounds annoyed.

"Why is the mattress wet?"

"What?"

"The mattress," I point to the dark circle in the middle of the bed. "It's wet."

He sits up and pushes the comforter farther down. He stares at the wet spot, and for a few moments he seems utterly perplexed. Then his eyes flick to his boxers, and a look of horror dawns across his face.

"I...don't know," he stammers. "Earlier...when we were...did you, like, squirt or something?"

I shake my head. No, you adorable, conceited idiot. I didn't, like, squirt or something.

"I don't know what...I guess maybe...I can change the sheets," he offers in a quiet voice.

I almost feel bad for him. Almost.

"It's fine," I say. "Let's just get some sleep. We have an exam tomorrow, you know."

I can tell from the look on his face that he won't be getting any more sleep tonight.

A better person would say she's not proud of what she's done.

But I am proud. So very, very proud.

Then tension drains from my body as I roll onto my left side and close my eyes. I listen to him slip quietly from the bed and pad down the hallway toward the couch.

I'm not worried about any uncomfortable conversations tomorrow, because I know he won't bring this up again. Ever. Besides, tonight is the last time I plan on seeing Brad outside of class. He's hot and all, but I need to focus on my studies.

I sink into the pillow and pull the comforter snug under my chin. It feels heavenly.

I know my conflict avoidance issues are unhealthy and need addressing. My friends have been encouraging me for a while to see a professional. It's probably sound advice, and I just might make an appointment.

But first, I think I'll sleep on it.