Bob knew he slept too much. These days it was easier than listening to his father and Shelley yell at each other. It was easier than standing around talking to his brothers and turning to share a joke with Dan, only to realize he wasn’t there.
The best place in the world was on the papasan chair shoved into the corner of the den. He was getting a little too tall for it, but if he curled up on his side in a teeny tiny ball he fit, as if cupped in the palm of giant hand, and he could sleep.
All he had to do was wait till no one was looking, slip into the den, curl up, and fling an arm over his eyes to block out the light. Shelley and his mother let it go, murmuring about how much the ‘illness’ was taking out of him. Bob liked to think he was finally catching up on seventeen years’ worth of sleep deficit from touring all the time.
The best way to nap was to crawl up onto the papasan while Clay was there and curl up behind him, not close enough to touch but close enough to feel the reassuring warmth of his presence, and listen while he practiced his bass softly. Without the amp, all he could hear was the rhythmic twang of the strings, but it was lulling, gentle. It was better when Clay hummed under his breath, a counterpoint to the beat.
Bob liked it when he woke up and Clay was still playing.
(260 words)
1 comment:
Vice of sleep? Oh, I could get down with that one. I never have enough sleep it seems these days.
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