Little Talks: Sleeping Arrangements

A series of short stories about a relationship starring a fictional couple who live rent free in Scott’s head.

“My parents will probably want us to sleep in the same bed,” she says in derivative response to my question about whether I should bring the “loud” swimsuit I’ve just purchased from a brand called Chubbies, or if I should err on the side of something a little bit more conservative.

I lower the two options I’ve been holding up for comparison, say, “Oh. Really?”

Then I toss the Chubbies option into my suitcase. It’s all bold colors with palm tree prints on them that I quite enjoy, even though where we’re going is too far north to see a proper palm tree. (I don’t know what it is, exactly, but I love a palm tree. Makes me nostalgic for the trips to Florida I used to take with my family in my youth, I guess. I get all giddy over them. It’s kind of weird.) The trunks may clash with some of the floral print shirts I’m also planning on bringing, but I’ll make sure I overpack, as one does, so I have plenty of options.

“Yeah,” she says. “Like, they’ll probably encourage it. I’d bet my next paycheck that they have a bed already made up for the two of us and everything.”

“Nice.”

“With extra pillows, even.”

“Extra pillows are clutch. You’ve got to have them so you can put one between your knees, you know?”

“Oh. I know.”

“But they do know I’m okay with not sleeping in the same bed as you when we’re under their roof, right?”

“They know I’m not okay with it.”

“You do love a snuggle.”

“Snuggles are the absolute tops, my man.”

“But I don’t assume your father is all that hot on us snuggling in his house.”

“Why is that an assumption you’d make?”

“I guess I’ve tried to put myself in his shoes and I wouldn’t feel all that great about my theoretical daughter engaging in some hanky-panky with some dude she’s been dating under my own dang roof, damnit.”

“Really? That’s an extremely old-fashioned tack to take.”

“It pains me how non-progressive it is.”

“Well, my parents want to be progressive — even though I think it’s beyond a stretch to say it’s progressive to embrace two people who love each other sleeping in the same bed. He knows we’ve done it before. Done it often. Will do it again.”

“Once my back heals.”

“Once your back heals, yes.”

“I gleefully await that day, when I’m no longer relegated to the part of my couch that reclines.”

“And you can move about freely, in a sexual way.”

“That too, of course.”

She gives me a quick kiss. I go immediately to full mast. I cannot describe to you the frustration and consternation that comes with having a malady that prevents you from being able to physically perform coitus to your full potential. If I had my Chubbies on right now, I might burst out of them. (Not due to the equipment I’m working with or anything. They’re just pretty snug-fitting trunks.)

“They do have a couch that reclines, right?” I say, confirming for the 18th or so time.

“That they do.”

“Cool. And it’s not that I don’t dig their willingness to allow me to slumber next to their daughter’s hot bod — and I do mean hot in both ways, as you are a complete smokeshow but also kind of like a tiny furnace when you’re under covers, to the point I sometimes worry you’re going to spontaneously combust in the middle of the night — but how do we explain to them in a way they’ll believe that couches are often better for my ailing back?”

“We can try,” she says.

“But they’re probably not going to believe me, are they?”

“Probably not.”

“Gotcha.”

“Mom may start to spiral and take it as a sign that we’re not on the same page or whatever. That we’re having relationship issues.”

She accompanies “relationship issues” with air quotes.

“I get it. We are too young and new-ish in our relationship to not be sleeping in the same bed. I mean, we’ve already crossed that rubicon — “

“More than several times,” she interjects.

“Yep.”

We exchange a high five.

“Wait,” she says.

“What?”

“Are you saying there could be a time in our relationship where we don’t share the same bed?”

“Well, to be fair, we don’t often share the same bed currently, but I see many years where we do, and then I envision a time when, to get the best possible sleep, we at least occasionally retire to different bedrooms.”

“Why?”

“It’s mostly a temperature control thing. You like it warm. I like it frigid. Our relationship seems stable and built to last, but there may come a time when we decide it’s best for our circadian rhythms if we split the sheets while still staying fully together. Like, if you want a nice cuddle or anything, you can always come knock at my door, or vice-versa, you know?”

“You know, I didn’t know you looked so far into the future.”

“I think about things.”

“I dig it.”

“But for this weekend, to not make things weird, I will sack up and sleep in bed with you. We don’t even need to make it a conversation with the folks.”

“Boy oh boy am I lucky! My boyfriend is going to sleep in the same bed as me!”

“Hell yeah he is. For three consecutive nights!”

“I can’t wait.”

“it’s gonna be wild.”

“But could I ask you one thing?”

“Anything, my love.”

“Could you try to reign in the sleep-eating while we’re there?”

“Whoa, okay. Let’s just take things one at a time here.”

She sighs. “Well, they will probably have plenty of cold cuts and other provisions for when you go foraging at three in the morning.”

“My people.”

“Something like that.”

“This is gonna be fun.”