11:47 p.m. that Saturday night. Subconcious fear tore my peaceful slumber, but my own cries woke me to the London room, warm and quiet to the outside, like a cacoon. A cacoon with a partner. B- reaches over and pulls me into his embrace. “Baby, you ok?” His voice has that soft edge of morning night, when you will return to the land that holds comfort or demons.
11:49 p.m. two minutes later. “I had a bad dream. I dreamt you came back to the states unexpectedly and packed your bags. No warning. You just showed up on a Satuday and told me you were taking your memories. Your photos and notebooks. Told me you were selling our condo…your condo. I said, ‘What about me? What about us?’ You looked at me with apathy. ‘What about us?’ you said.”
11:51 p.m. just before his light snoring begins like an ambient noise machine. He pulls me even tighter and whispers, “That’s ridiculous. I want to spend my life with you. Always. That was a bad dream.”
11:55 p.m. I lay awake. I can survive without him. I am capable. What if a British supermodel with a tooth gap and knowledge of the Crimean War seduces him with her intelligence? I hate my dream of him leaving. My wide awake dream is of us.
12:03 a.m. and work thoughts invade. Kids deserve passion. I have no passion for lesson plans or grading. I make a difference and I’m leaving a legacy. How will I ever survive until the end of the year. I don’t even sleep like normal people. What are normal people doing different than me? I should drink more. No. I would sleep, but the grading would grow larger. Grading is the devil’s work. And planning is a strength of mine…was. Ugh! How will I last until June without developing tremors?
12:10 a.m. prayer of the desperate insomniac. Please God, help me sleep.
12:11 a.m. designing bedrooms in my mind. Move the bed near the window. Make a canopy with plumbing pipe and fabric. Move bed away from window. Put it back. Turn a dresser into a bar. Runner, bottles, cocktail glasses. What color is the paint? Grey. Dark grey. Pewter. Yes Pewter.
12:18 a.m. Oh wow! It’s Easter Sunday. The day all Christians think Jesus rose from the dead to save them from their sins. “Jesus, you aren’t going to help me sleep. Are you?”
12:19 a.m. out of bed naked. The living room is cold and I search for a blanket, settle for a coat. Singing. Not mine. Someone on the street. London shuts down at 10:00. It must be a drunk person. Hmmm. That could be fun. I want to watch the drunk.
12:20 a.m. looking out on the street. Wearing a wool coat and nothing else. Wishing for sleep. “Adoremus in aeternum sanctissimum Sacramentum.
Laudate Dominum omnes gentes: laudate eum omnes populi.” This is no drunk. It’s monks. A group of ten or more, two rows side-by-side, in black robes . Hooded. I listen to their chants fill the morning night. They tread in the center of the street, heads bent, arms by their sides. And then I see him at the back.
12:21 he has risen. The disciple in torn white robes, wrists bound together, head toward the heavens. Jesus. The man or the ghost. I’m not sure. “B- wake up!!! Jesus is on the street. It’s Jesus. Hurry. He’s passing us by.” I listen as the chanting fills the streets beyond us. Latin so profuse and pervasive in it’s message
12:33 and left behind. He didn’t rise fast enough. The monks are gone and B- stands at the window looking at a bicycle slowly peddle the other direction. “Are you sure they were here? I don’t hear anything. Maybe you’ll find it on the internet in the morning.” Jesus is everywhere on the internet, but not this Jesus. This Jesus was in human form. On Foley Street. This was ghost Jesus.
12:36 internet search reveals nothing. Jesus was right there while I was nude in a wool coat. He wouldn’t let me sleep. Damn the sneaky bastard! I’ll never forget.
Two weeks later: Excited B- calls from London just before his bedtime. He has seen a naked girl in the window across the street. I wonder if Jesus called her too.