My husband talks in his sleep, but only when he’s dog-tired.
Typically, it’s the kind of unintelligible drabble that
dissipates in a minute or two, followed by soft snoring (I’m sorry honey, did I
say snoring? I meant “breathing”). I’ve been known to talk in my sleep before,
but it hasn’t happened in quite a while (that we know of).
Recently I’ve discovered his subconscious has decided to
take this one-way conversation to the next level. The outcome of this hilarious
turn of events is my newfound appreciation for my husband’s surprisingly
tender-hearted advocacy for fantasy creatures, great and small.
One night when we were out of town, my husband fell asleep
while watching a movie. I tried to get some sleep myself, but mere moments
after turning out the lights, I heard the quiet, concerned murmurings of my
husband lying next to me:
“Humpty Dumpty….”
“Why can’t they put him back together?”
I opened my eyes, wondering if he was awake. I had my back
turned to him, so it was hard to tell. He repeated the same question, a slur in
his voice:
“Why can’t they fix Humpty Dumpty?”
“Send all the knights and horses…”
I snorted, grabbing the pillow under my head to stifle it.
There was no doubt about it, he was sleep talking. There was a long silence
after that, and I thought it might be the end of it. But then I heard a
sorrowful sigh, and then a voice that dropped an octave to deliver a serious
accusation:
“It was the king.”
I sat up a little, intrigued by this turn of events. It was
like a soap opera in his sleep.
“I think Humpty forgot to bring something to his party, so
that’s why he did it.”
“…the king murdered him.”
I stuffed the entire corner of the pillow into my mouth to
prevent myself from laughing, probably more out of amusement than actual
consideration, if I’m being honest. My body shook, and even though my husband
isn’t a light sleeper, I was surprised it didn’t wake him.
I choked on the pillow Then I laughed again. I
choke-laughed.
“Do you think they’ll serve Humpty at his funeral?”
-Pause-
“Because I think that would be inappropriate.”
My whole body wracked with laughter. I began rolling around
on the bed in an absolute fit. I only wished my phone was nearby so I could
record it. I wouldn’t make the same mistake again.
“Do you like egg salad?”
“I don’t really like it, but you should eat it soon because
he’ll go bad quickly.”
That was it; my poor lungs – not to mention my heart –
couldn’t take it anymore. I ran over to the light and turned it on as my
laughter rang unabashedly throughout the room. Hopping on the bed, I shook my
husband awake. He stared at me with a sleepy expression, probably wondering why
I had just interrupted a good sleep.
I had a hard time repeating what he’d said through my fits
of giggles, but afterward, he told me I should write it down so I wouldn’t
forget. I did just that, transposing his little story of intrigue, espionage,
and betrayal on my phone. I told him his conversation reminded me of the Five
Stages of Grief, except there was apparently a sixth stage, called “Eating your
Loved One” at the end.
If that were the end of it, I’d find it funny enough, but a
week and a half later – this time, in our own apartment – he did it again. And
as I stated before, I didn’t forget my phone this time and recorded it:
“T-Rex…mwfgsjhfdkl….”
“T-Rex’s have a bad
rap…”
“It’s not fair.”
“Why do they always make them bad guys?”
“Maybe they don’t want to be meat eaters. Maybe they’d be
nice if they ate plants.”
“Are they bullies? Are they bullied? I don’t know.”
“Does anyone know?”
“I think long necks are the real bad guys; they’re too
peaceful.”
I’m saddened to say that there was more, but I couldn’t make
out the words. On the one hand, I hope he continues to talk in his sleep,
because who couldn’t use another laugh or two? On the other hand…
I’d like to actually sleep too, and I don’t think laughter
is the best medicine for THAT.
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