Happy birthday?

It is easily half an hour after I have bundled up and slid beneath my sheets. My brain blesses me with the thought that I am not yet asleep. However often it has shared this observation in the past, it does not seem to have grasped that it is actively counterproductive.

You are also sad and anxious because tomorrow is your birthday.

I am not. I am trying to sleep.

No, I just remembered. You are forty-two tomorrow. You have no house. You work a job whose main purpose is to be so broken that it gives you time to write. You will die soon and leave Amber all alone.

I see the flaws in its argument, but I am not looking for a fight. I went to bed to sleep. I take more of my night meds and try to clear my mind.

You are sad. You can't ignore that. Sad.

I can ignore it because I am not sad. Tomorrow is nothing special. Hush.

You can't sleep until you are less sad.

You aren't helping with that. I was resting before you piped up, you know.

My brain is pleased I am responding. Convince me you aren't sad then. It pauses And anxious. Don't forget anxious.

I would much prefer to forget this. My mental health had been sound for weeks. Insomnia won't help that, but thinking this is a feedback loop.

Brain, you mentioned both my writing and Amber. These are glorious. Now hush.

No one reads you.

That's not my problem, and agonizing on this tonight will do nothing to fix it. I'm getting ready to apply to agents.

And Amber?

Mutual adoration going strong for eleven years,

Then why are you still sad and getting sadder?

It might be because you will not shut up and let me sleep. You are the one perseverating on a day where I will open presents -- including an Artetak mystery envelope and something from Amber -- and eat cake and chicken parm sandwiches. Hush.

Still sad. Maybe sadder somehow.

I turn over to excavate some of Amber's body from the mass of bedsheets and weighted blankets. She couldn't have come to bed too long ago and so should still be awake enough.

"Sad," I confide. "Anxious."

"You are young," she says with no further prompting. "And beautiful, and I love you."

I lie on my side. She rests her legs over my thighs. Soon, she is asleep again. I listen to the crackles of her snoring, its restfulness, and try to follow its waves to my dreams.

It is just loud enough to push me away from sleep, so I adjust enough that she lets me spoon her. The snoring turns only to steady breath.

My brain quiets as her skin warms mine. I let the last day of my forty-first year drift away.

last watched: Archer
reading: Gef!