NIGHT SWEATS

It’s 3 A.M. The t.v. in her bedroom is still on, just as it is every morning since 10 P.M. when Sally clicked it on as she got into bed.Fifteen minutes of CSI is all she can take. A switch to a re -run of Lou Dobbs CNN jabbering on and on lasts twenty, half hour Law and Order, a few pages of ‘Luck Be a Lady’, two trips to the bathroom, a sip of water, 10 refreshing cold green grapes and she tries again to fall asleep until at least six a.m.

With little hope she throws off her light weight thin blue blanket, followed by the matching blue sheet and reverses the two dacron pillows that lie there, one on top of the other for better comfort, more chance to snooze. She reaches to turn off the night table lamp and t.v. before trying again for an answer to her nightly ‘why can’t I sleep like normal people, get up at 6 or seven, do what I do during the day and sleep 6 or 7 hours a night, all at one time? ‘No pills, Doc.’

Her left foot goes right into her blue slipper next to the bed. The right has moved. ‘Where is that little Bastard?’ Down flat on the floor she searches under the bed but can’t reach it. She goes downstairs, gets a broom from the pantry and slides the slipper next to the other. It is not blue. It isn’t hers. Whose is it? Where is mine? A little cold sweat beads her forehead. Her heart beats faster. She hurries to the bathroom, turns on the tap and without waiting for the water to be warm, douses her head with the chill of night. It drips under her neck and down the lacy front of her nitegown.

The kitchen shades are tightly closed. Nobody can see her. ‘Let it drip!’ A semi-fog slowly rises. Her head feels a little more clear. Somebody, sometime left that slipper under my bed. Kirk’s Employment Agency will have some explaining to do and better have a new housekeeper here for me by Saturday.

OK. Now, let me see. Where is my slipper, the one I put right next to my other one, the one that is still there, before I got in bed? With doubt but determination she goes back to look again and there it is, exactly where it should have been, except they are pointing different directions. Who cares? Both slip on easily. .

The digital night table clock blinks 4:45. Not a car passes her building. The elevator has been idle for hours but will soon wake up. Nothing else to do, Sally gets dressed, nukes oatmeal with sweet cream and cinnamon, lightly toasts an English muffin, smothers it with strawberry jam, and skips the coffee. Feeling foolish but sated, Sally imagines the sofa is whistling for her, goes into the den and lies down .The blue slipper will be found sooner or later and she blocks it all out of her mind as the world disappears.

A soft breeze brushes her face and tickles her awake. Lordy, I slept two hours. I feel great. Her clothes aren’t even rumpled. As she walks toward the t.v. she screams out loud. In front of her former husband’s rocker is the slipper that isn’t blue. It’s tan mate is beside it. A soft knock sounds from the front door. Without opening it she calls, ‘Who’s there?’ A familiar voice replies,’ Open the door, Sally, I bought fresh croissants for breakfast. Her ex stands there holding a plastic bag of rolls and her legs buckle. ‘Where did you find that old slipper of mine?’ he asks her. ‘The pair look good together, don’t they?’

It’s 3:15 a.m. and Sally, as usual, can’t sleep–except sometimes. Sometimes she manages to squeeze in a quick dream