by Cassandra Dunn
I am a light sleeper. It's not something anyone wants to be, except maybe a night guard or a soldier in a foxhole. I wish there was some way to train myself to sleep harder, the way my mother does, so dead to the world that even a queasy child shaking her in the night, looking for comfort, can't wake her. A gust of wind can wake me, the rustle of my own sheets as I roll in my sleep, the thin creak of a floorboard anywhere in the house. Devin knows I'm a light sleeper. He sees it in my puffy eyes most mornings, asks what it was this time.
"Cat. Meowing at 3am."
He nods, brushes his teeth, inspects his pores in the smear of clarity on an otherwise foggy mirror. I watch him study himself, wondering what he sees there.
The amazing thing is not how full of crap he is, sneaking around in the night, sending her texts, calling her from the garage, emailing unaware that the blue glow of his monitor lights up the entire house, that I can see this luminosity under our bedroo...