A Million Things to Do but Sleep

It was three in the morning and the bed felt very empty. The single crooked light on the corner wall was usually dim, but glared in the new moon darkness. He twined his fingers and cradled them behind his head staring up at the ceiling. Another day gone. Another night at work. Another dollar made. Another million things and yet another unmillion things that could have happened. There could have been a flood. A little further north was getting some of the worst in decades. But that didn't happen. He could have drank at work and ended up at a stranger's house walking home drunk and confused at six in the morning wondering where the dark had gone. But that didn't happen. He could have left Minnesota. Just taken his car and left. Not telling anyone. Secretly filling up the tank and driving until the old Corolla sputtered and died on the side of a country highway. But he was too scared to do that and so that never happened neither.

He rolled over and put the body pillow between his legs. The cold comfort of the white cotton was no replacement. He sniffled. One nostril was stuffed up because of the fickle early spring weather. He was always sick at the change of seasons. The week before had been sunny and warm. He had smoked cigars on the porch all day with friends, lounging and squinting at the bright goodness. Now it was back down to the low twenties and his body was struggling to readjust. He sneezed and reached for the roll of toilet paper he used as a substitute for tissues. A million things, a million things. There were probably a million things he could use right now. A couple Sudafed for starters. Maybe even some codein cough syrup. Where was Lil Wayne when you needed him. Some new CDs would change things up. The National was getting old and rediscovering old favorites was a waste of time and memory. Or he could make his own music. New guitar strings then. Shopping list. Mental note. Forgotten. How about a rocket ship to the moon. That would shake everything up. He felt like settled snow in a glass paperweight. Come back to earth. He was drifting.

Sleep was coming. His grip on the body pillow slipped a little and his eyes fluttered. The glaring light blinked in and out. He was thinking about memories. And memories of memories. It was the only good time to think about them. Alone, at night, when no one was watching and wondering what he was wondering or wondering why he was wondering and not talking. The millions of things people thought about. Before, in his memories, in his textbooks. And he could never know them exactly. Did anyone else think about that? Another sneeze jolted him out of slumberous endeavors. More toilet paper. His nose was starting to get scratchy red from the cheap single-ply. He put his glasses on the nightstand and shut off the dim glaring light then shuffled quickly back into bed.

A million things. There were a million things to say. About nothing. About the trite and the trivial. About time and time past and past lives and life lessons. There were thousands of "I'm sorry"s and hundreds of "told you so"s and maybe even a couple of "you're right"s. There were so many "thank you"s and never enough "you're welcome"s. His eyes were fluttering again, but this time no light blinked in and out of existence. It was just black. He yawned and cleared his throat then turned back to the body pillow and nestled his head in its plush. It was coming, sleep was coming. He smiled. There were a million things, but sleep was the best.