These days, sleeping feels like a kind of drunkenness, like travelling by sea. I roll from one end of the bed to the other, never comfortable, never warm, not enough limbs to hold down the covers. Sometimes it feels like sailing in a tempest. The flat is full of noises; the darkness is windy outside my window; all the surfaces slope. I crawl my way up through soggy dreams, craving fresh air to stop the nausea. My eyes fly open on the upper deck and I am back in our flat: it is still night-time and I’m scared. He always fell asleep before I did. I fell asleep listening to his steady breathing. Now I am awake at two in the morning because the shower is dripping and it’s driving me fucking mad.

In this dream, she’s dressed like a cartoon frog except her costume is like no other costume I’ve ever seen: the head is sturdy and heavy, the body rigid. She has to leap forward to move at all. It looks more like a large plastic frog has swallowed her whole than a costume. Her eyes sparkle darkly from the frog’s engorged neck. They follow me around the room. ‘Mummy, Mummy,’ she gurgles as if she’s speaking from deep under water. I push my thumb into her frog mouth and it goes inside without hitting resistance, deep into her hollow limitless skull.

On the sixth day I wake with a start, my face damp and throbbing. I kick the cushion on to the floor, push at the duvet. The phone is ringing in circles on top of the wooden dresser, its calling: 6:30! It’s a new dawn. It’s a Monday. And one of the worst: a Monday in January.

SANDWICH BREAD

Four Years Earlier

From: [email protected]

Sent: 13 January 2012 01:23

To: [email protected]

Subject: Good Morning