I’m lying in my bed. It’s late. I can tell because no more light comes through the poorly curtained windows in my room. My cat is sitting with her back to me, just out of reach of my hand, like a dancer at a strip club. You can look, but you can’t touch. She turns her face towards me. She yawns. I echo the sentiment, and yawn right back. Both of our eye teeth flashing in the dim light of the yellow lamp on my bedside table. I look at the cursor flashing on an empty page of the too bright, backlit laptop screen. It taunts me with its eagerness to move across the page. I glare at it, waiting it out, like a staring contest with a child. Blink. I win. Blink. I win. Blank… it wins. The cat jumps off the bed. I don’t blame her. I’d rather be somewhere else too. My feet tap out a rhythm under the comforter that only I can hear. Anxiety is the tune, and sleeplessness the melody. I get up, close the finger-smudged laptop, collapsing it in on itself like a fat man punched forcibly, and go get a snack.
Image: Amara Gelaude/The Cascade