Читать книгу Searching for Sam - Sophie Bienvenu - Страница 19

IT’S GOTTEN WEIRD, SLEEPING IN A BED, SO EVEN when I can, I’d rather sleep on the floor, on our foam mat. Sam curls up in a ball against my stomach, but if I squeeze her too much in my sleep, she’ll get up and go sleep out of reach. When I wake up and she isn’t in my arms anymore, my head sort of spins. If I can touch her when I reach out my hand, I can go back to sleep. Otherwise I shout, “Sam, Jesus, I’m freezing!” and she comes back grumbling, but not too much, because she knows it’s not the outside cold. It’s the inside cold.

Sam sighs. Because I’m getting on her nerves or because she feels good? I choose the answer based on my mood. Sometimes the sky is pink, when it’s still too early for life’s noises to have started. I find a comfortable position on the ground, not too hard, not too cold. There’s no one in the street. There’s maybe two or three cats going through the garbage and wandering around looking for a bird or a mouse to torture. I stick a shoulder out of my sleeping bag just to be happy to bring it back in where it’s warm. The joy lasts a second. These last few mornings, it’s practically nice out, and I almost want to enjoy it a little. But I’m too afraid my brain will start up and ruin everything, so I close my eyes on the pink and the cats, roll over to feel the ground under my bones and stick both arms out of the sleeping bag all of a sudden, as if I was diving into a frozen lake. Anything not to think.

Sam sighs. I go back to sleep.

Her heart beating under my hand calms me down. Even if it’s just a dog’s heart.