During our first year of marriage I was enlightened to Ken’s fascinating ability to dialogue; a captivating a story teller who could also come up with some pretty hair-brained ideas. Although entertaining, it could be hard to discern whether or not he was sincere, or just brewing a bunch of confabulations. The first adventure began with a bang, but ended in a puncture:
Halfway through the night, I was disturbed by Ken when he suddenly pulled himself up on one elbow and looked suspiciously around the room, “Shhhhhh…” Wary, I was quiet and silent and scared, wondering what or who was in the room? I barely whispered, “Huh?”
After a pause that seemed forever, he suspiciously replied, “I think there’s a snake in the room.” In a flash he was sitting upright and took a quick scan of the room. We didn’t speak, but I couldn’t help wondering why it was necessary to be quiet for a snake? Perhaps if we spoke it would understand our plan of attack? Ah, no. More likely, if it knew we humans were near, it would get angry and hurdle itself up on the bed?
After I endured a few minutes of imaginative thinking (along with sweat forming in my tightly clenched fists), I finally heard the distinct, familiar sound of heavy breathing, the sound of blissful sleep, coming from Ken’s side of the bed. It was obvious; he was oblivious to what had just occurred, and in the morning, would feign complete innocence. I frowned inwardly and felt quite dismayed. He had his little fiasco, and I was left terrified.
Alas, it was the exciting new beginning of our shared future (no getting out of it for me) —my husband’s infamous sleep dialogs and night excursions were off to a grand start (with more to come). I would eventually get used to them and it would become entertaining —like going to the movies; I’d wait in eager anticipation to see what bazaar thing he would do next. But like air wheezing out of a puncture, it always came to an end with the blissful snore.