Dust of the Universe

V.S. Kemanis

© 2013 V.S. Kemanis

ON A COOL October night, Kip is balled up in the middle of the king-size bed, covers pulled over his head. This is Leila's way of sleeping when she gets in first and waits for him, but the position is not natural to Kip. He is 38, still hard-muscled from workouts in the gym. Stretched out, his length of six feet, two inches, places his head at the top and his heels at the very bottom of the bed. Now, curled up inside his soft, dark cavern, he tries to feel his bigness and strength. They are lost to him.

The hour is still early, yet he must sleep. Tomorrow will be his first day back at the office. He lies on his left side, making a tight "S". In the quiet under the down comforter, he can hear his own breathing, not much else. The enclosed space gives each breath a bellows-like whooshing sound to complement the whooshing of blood in his veins. He becomes aware of his shallow breathing and endeavors to deepen it, but the changes in rhythm and effort make him doubly aware of his beating heart. Its power reverberates throughout his body.

The effort to keep his mind blank is exhausting but does not lead him into sleep. He opens his eyes. The absence of light is complete under the thick, tightly drawn covers, but there's always something to be seen. He looks into the dark. Thousands of tiny white specks dance about like atoms at boiling point. Intermittently, in the middle of their bright dance, pulsing flows shove them aside, like muddy disgorgements from sewage pipes, rushing rhythmically with every beat of his heart.

In time, his breath and blood warm the air inside his self-made tent. He rolls onto his back and throws the covers off his face, escaping the pitch black with its boiling atomic particles and flowing phantoms of blood. The moonlight casts the room in grainy relief, a surprising amount of natural light. The bedroom is on the second floor and has two large windows, bordered only with decorative swags—Leila's touches. They've always left the windows uncovered because they live in a wooded suburb, very private. Quiet.

He knows he will not be going to sleep. He gets up.

At the window on the front of the house he stops to look out. Near the mailbox, a glimmer catches his eye, a single gentle swing in a sudden breeze. The realtor came by that morning to post the "for sale" sign. The outdoor lights are off but everything can be seen in the moonlight: the driveway, the rock garden, a patch of lawn, the outlines of branches, and in the distance, the porch light of their nearest neighbor. The sky is shot with stars but lacking the moon.

He goes to the back of the house, to the master bath. It has a small bay window with a ledge to rest his elbows upon while gazing out. Low in the sky, the enormous moon bathes the large backyard in a silver shimmer, bright enough to cast shadows from the surrounding trees. The realtor told him to leave the swing set up, it will help to make the sale. He turns. He needs to tell Leila what the realtor said today.

Kip moves back to the bedroom. On the bed is a lump of covers, head invisible. He draws and releases the next breath without noticing it, and the corners of his mouth turn upward. She's climbed in while he was in the bathroom, and now, maybe, he can go to sleep.

"Leila," he whispers when he's pushed up behind her, his head still outside, hers inside. There's not a sound, but the bed is warm. "Are you asleep already?"

Always, Leila has been nearly soundless in the way she sleeps, a kitten without the purr.

"Are you all right, Leila?"

"Fine. Just fine." The voice is barely audible under the covers yet so familiar in the dark. The tone is gentle and sweet, full of contentment. At rest.