My girlfriend talks in her sleep.
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SLEEP
SLEEP
In animal languages.
Meowing like a cat. Or barking like a dog. Or cawing like a crow.
A couple of months ago. Out of nowhere.
Nope. It's true-to-life imitations of actual animals in the wild...
Experts can't tell the difference between Harriet's animal noises and the originals.
It's as if she's vocalizing the audible id of nature itself.
You think?
Before what?
It's her snoring.
If 10 decibels is breathing and 35 decibels is city traffic, her snoring is 120 decibels...
That's a jackhammer in your bedroom, or even worse, an ambulance.
Yes, that's my Harriet...
An ambulance wailing down the corridors of my nights.
An ambulance wailing down the corridors of my nights.
An ambulance wailing down the corridors of my nights.
It's all about her snoring now.
Not when we first dated. But we were loud about everything else.
"Nice move!", "You win!" and "Suck it, loser!" over our week-long games of Scrabble...
Oohs! and Aahs! at eating, for the first time, loquats and other exotic fruits...
Loud with laughter while binging our favorite comedies on TV...
And loud with drink, and the crazy closeness drink inspires — Aren't we the perfect couple? Elizabeth and Fitzwilliam who?
And loud with drink, and the wild claims drink inspires (Aren't we the perfect couple? Elizabeth and Fitzwilliam who?).
And yes, we were loud with sex.
I was a screamer. Sometimes, to protect our neighbors' prudery, Harriet taped my mouth shut.
We didn't know it yet, but we were already moving toward the silence that characterizes our current, waking relationship.
Yes. After three years, Harriet and I've said most of what we need to say.
Although never verbally expressed, I know we're in total agreement on this point.
Any shared opinion, fact, joke or observation is wasted when a simple nod of the head will do...
A sideways look, a tapped foot or a raised eyebrow...
I don't even scream during sex anymore.
What would be the point? Harriet's heard it all before.
She knows.
So you think her snoring's a commentary on what a snooze our relationship has become?
Every morning at 7 a.m., Harriet eats her yogurt and fruit for breakfast.
I have a bagel and juice.
We save our words for moments when words are absolutely necessary.
Like when there's an emergency (which there never is), or an observation that can't be expressed with gestures or signs.
After breakfast, with a quick kiss on the cheek and our coffee thermoses in hand, we head off for work.
Her as an arts administrator at a local non-profit. Me as an arts administrator at a competing non-profit.
We never openly compete, and we never talk shop.
During the day, to break the monotony, we text amusing memes to each other:
Later, when our non-profiting is done, we come home for dinner.
She has a salad. I have pasta with a side of vegetables.
Harriet:
They don't talk much, do they? The two main characters.
Me:
No. But honestly, what's there to say?
Harriet:
They love each other. That should be enough.
Harriet:
They don't talk much, do they? The two main characters.
Me:
No. But honestly, what's there to say?
Harriet:
They love each other. That should be enough.
Me:
No need to explain it out loud.
Harriet:
It's a waste of words.
Me:
True love. It goes without saying.
Me:
No need to explain it out loud.
Harriet:
It's a waste of words.
Me:
True love. It goes without saying.
And so on. Naturally, all that word-hoarding is tiring.
By 9 p.m., we're in bed.
Harriet sleeps on the left. I sleep on the right.
We always say, "I love you" before we turn out the light.
The one verbal repetition we allow ourselves.
For old time's sake.
As Harriet snores, I'm next to her, not asleep or awake, but trapped by a fitful combination of the two.
What I call swaking.
My tedious, endless swaking while Harriet sleeps.
I'm getting to that.
Do you know what it's like to wake in the morning and find yourself happy and refreshed?
Your day stretching, sublime and glorious, toward an infinite promise?
Not us swakers. We never see this promise.
We struggle with heavily lidded eyes as we swake through the dull commotion of our daily grind.
We see it through the blurry lens of too little sleep and the nagging pull of our tired bodies.
Alright...
One night, Harriet suddenly stops snoring and cries out with the haunting wail of a loon separated from its chick....
I'm swaking at the time, so I sit straight up in bed.
At first, I think it's a gas leak, or an appliance failure.
Then, sidling closer to Harriet, I see her lips move and that distinctive tremolo comes out, an anxious call of a loon in distress.
Should I answer her? I ask myself. Am I part of this animal act?
She lets out a loud yodel, a warning used in territorial disputes. Clearly, if I understand her correctly, the message is to back off. Give her some space.
I camouflage myself under the blanket as she barks a sharp hoot into the air, a call of curiosity one mate might send to another.
For the next hour, she continues with her hooting as she's happily swaddled in sleep.
For the next hour, she continues with the hooting, a tranquil note of contentment, as she is happily swaddled in sleep.
And so am I.
For the first time in months, I sleep like a baby.
The loon sounds are better than any sound machine. Better than Xanax.
I'm out for the count. All zzzzzzzs.
Me:
You were a loon last night. In your sleep.
Harriet:
What? I was crazy as a loon?
Me:
No, not crazy. You were like the bird. Making weird loon sounds.
Me:
You were a loon last night. In your sleep.
Harriet:
What? I was crazy as a loon?
Me:
No, not crazy. You were like the bird. Making weird loon sounds.
Harriet:
That happened last night? For real?
Me:
For real.
Harriet:
I don't remember.
Me:
I don't think you were aware of it. It was more of a channeling thing. Like the loon was speaking through your lips.
Harriet:
That happened last night? For real?
Me:
For real.
Harriet:
I don't remember.
Me:
I don't think you were aware of it. It was more of a channeling thing. Like the loon was speaking through your lips.
Harriet:
I know you're joking. But it's not funny.
Me:
I'm totally serious. You hooted and yodeled like a loon.
Harriet:
Well, I don't feel like a loon. Not at all. And P.S., that's kind of insulting.
Harriet:
I know you're joking. But it's not funny.
Me:
I'm totally serious. You hooted and yodeled like a loon.
Harriet:
Well, I don't feel like a loon. Not at all. And P.S., that's kind of insulting.
Me:
No insult. I'm just saying, is all...
Harriet:
Next time, don't say, ok? Don't say anything at all.
Me:
No insult. I'm just saying, is all...
Harriet:
Next time, don't say, ok? Don't say anything at all.
As we leave for work, her goodbye kiss is dry and perfunctory.
Her lips barely brush my cheek.
The next night, she's a lioness...
I hear her distinctive grunts of close-range greeting.
Then her roars — in the wild, heard up to five miles away — to strengthen social bonds among family members.
At first, my zzzzzzzs are punctuated with !!!!!!! because I'm in bed with a lioness. My primal instinct is to flee.
But in the end, I sleep like a baby. Maybe a baby lion. Whatever, it's wonderful.
But in the end, it makes no difference. I drift off and sleep like a baby. Maybe a baby lion. Whatever, it's wonderful.
Me:
You were a lioness last night.
Harriet:
Really? Did we have sex? I don't remember.
Me:
I mean in your sleep. You were making lion sounds.
Harriet:
This again? The whole animal thing?
Me:
You were a lioness last night.
Harriet:
Really? Did we have sex? I don't remember.
Me:
I mean in your sleep. You were making lion sounds.
Harriet:
This again? The whole animal thing?
Me:
I'm just telling you what happened.
Harriet:
Well, a lion's not much better than a loon. Either I'm crazy, or a blood-thirsty carnivore.
Me:
Maybe you're both, haha? Anyway, I sleep much better now, thanks to you.
Harriet:
Because I'm an animal when I sleep? Seriously, what is up with you?
Me:
I'm just telling you what happened.
Harriet:
Well, a lion's not much better than a loon. Either I'm crazy, or a blood-thirsty carnivore.
Me:
Maybe you're both, haha? Anyway, I sleep much better now, thanks to you.
Harriet:
Because I'm an animal when I sleep? Seriously, what is up with you?
I want to tell her how I once swoke. And how animal-talking might change the decibels of our relationship.
But like I said. Word-hoarding.
No jumping ahead, please. In sleep's fickle partitioning of our daily lives, we never know when we'll wake next.
The next night, Harriet's a wolf...
She howls to communicate her location to other pack members who've wandered off.
She growls a warning and barks in alarm.
I'm so used to the soothing rapture of her animal noises, filtering audibly into my dreams, I actually wake up, around 2 a.m., when she stops.
It's a silent alarm that warns of an unexpected void in the animal kingdom. A moment where the animals have paused in their speaking.
I wait in the void, patient in the knowledge she'll start up again.
And so on, night after night...
I wait in the void, patient in the knowledge she'll start up again.
Until one night, I answer her.
(Or I guess I answer her. I'm asleep at the time, so I don't know what's happened until the next morning, when my voice is a husky bark...
Until one night, I answer her.
Right away, I suspect animal-talking is involved. I never converse in my waking life long enough to make me hoarse.
(Or I guess I answer her. I'm asleep at the time, so I don't know what's happened until the next morning, when my voice is a husky bark...
This is something new).
Right away, I suspect animal-talking is involved. I never converse in my waking life long enough to make me hoarse.
That night, I put my phone on the bedside table and set it to record when triggered.
This is something new).
At exactly 1:23 a.m, after a staccato of female baboon cries from Harriet indicating an imminent move across an open area, I reply...
I hear me doing a perfect imitation of a male baboon: a threat call, a fear bark, and a reconciliation grunt.
I don't understand exactly what the baboon-me is saying, but the baboon-Harriet does.
And she seems to like it.
And she seems to like it.
I record again the next night.
This time, Harriet's an elephant...
She begins with the contact call of one who's been separated from the group. Then a weeping cry of loss. Then a low, greeting rumble of desired reunion.
On the recording, I hear myself reply with the soft elephant rumble of my contact answer.
On the recording, I hear myself reply with the soft elephant rumble of my contact answer.
Me:
It's really interesting.
Harriet:
Seriously? I don't have time.
Me:
You'll thank me later.
Me:
It's really interesting.
Harriet:
Seriously? I don't have time.
Me:
You'll thank me later.
Harriet:
Are you sure?
Me:
Just listen.
Harriet:
Are you sure?
Me:
Just listen.
I play the recording, and she hears her female baboon, followed by my reconciliation grunt.
She listens to her weeping elephant snort, and then the rumble of my reply.
At first, Harriet doesn't believe the recording is real. She thinks it's some sort of AI trick.
But I point out the tonal similarities in our voices. I isolate the sounds of our bodies tossing on the bed and the rustling of sheets.
Harriet:
Oh, my god. That's me?
Me:
And me, too.
Harriet:
We talk like animals while we're asleep?
But I point out the tonal similarities in our voices. I isolate the sounds of our bodies tossing on the bed and the rustling of sheets.
Harriet:
Oh, my god. That's me?
Me:
And me, too.
Harriet:
We talk like animals while we're asleep?
Me:
Apparently so.
Harriet:
That's incredible.
Me:
Apparently so.
Harriet:
That's incredible.
Harriet's completely won over. Ecstatic, even. She's amazed at how long our nighttime talks last, and how conversant we are in animal languages.
After that, our waking relationship gradually evolves.
Now, where we always adopted an efficient and muted eloquence, our sleep-conversations suggest there is more to talk about. A verbal bridge is being built.
But progress must be tracked. So every night, before we go to bed, I set the phone to record.
Pig
Sheep
Horse
Camel
Gorilla
Yak
The list goes on. They are unknown languages, at least to us.
But whatever we are saying, it is magnificent.
Our conversations are detailed and loving, with no lies or misunderstandings.
We are giving, polite and patient.
The animals have so much to teach us.
As a result, our waking conversations improve.
We don't use the animal languages when we speak, of course. Our daytime voices can't sustain that.
Harriet:
That swan sound. The one I made last night. It reminds me of our first date. That time by the river? When that barge honked its horn at us?
Me:
They saw us leaning over the shore railing. And we waved to them...
Harriet:
And they sounded their horn.
Harriet:
That swan sound. The one I made last night. It reminds me of our first date. That time by the river? When that trash barge honked its horn at us?
Me:
They saw us leaning over the shore railing. And we waved to them...
Harriet:
And they sounded their horn.
Me:
Like they knew it was our first date.
Harriet:
It wasn't hard to guess. We must have looked so awkward standing there without touching.
Me:
They honked twice. Like they were encouraging us.
Me:
Like they knew it was our first date.
Harriet:
It wasn't hard to guess. We must have looked so awkward standing there without touching.
Me:
They honked twice. Like they were encouraging us.
Harriet:
So we held hands. Remember?
Me:
Our first time.
[I reach over the breakfast table, and we hold hands. Long pause.]
Harriet:
Um, sweetie. The possum sound you made the other night. Around 1:06 a.m.?
Harriet:
So we held hands. Remember?
Me:
Our first time.
[I reach over the breakfast table, and we hold hands. Long pause.]
Harriet:
Um, sweetie. The possum sound you made the other night. Around 1:06 a.m.?
Me:
Yes?
Harriet:
If you do it again tonight, we'll do {{ITALIC:that}} after, ok?
Me:
I'll try to. I can't really control it.
Harriet:
Of course not, but we can learn.
Me:
Yes?
Harriet:
If you do it again tonight, we'll do {{ITALIC:that}} after, ok?
Me:
I'll try to. I can't really control it.
Harriet:
Of course not, but we can learn.
[More hand squeezing. Then, as we leave for work, a long kiss by the door.]
Harriet snores sometimes, but it's pretty rare. Instead, we mostly animal-talk.
Every morning we listen to the recordings.
We discuss them at length.
Those discussions branch into other topics we thought we'd left in the past. Art. Music. Theater. Our jobs. What if we get married...
Wow, did I just say that? Things have really changed!
We talk and talk.
Our talking is much more satisfying now my swaking is over.
I scream again during sex...
We also share our thoughts as much now as when we first dated.
But we're not overconfident. We know how easy it is to slip into word-hoarding.
Time passes, and couples stumble into silence, don't they? They run low on things to say.
So we're glad we animal-talk every night.
We wake with hoarse voices, but energetic and refreshed, ready for each new day.
Some days, we don't even listen to the recordings.
We don't have to.
It's enough simply to know they are there.
It's enough simply to know they are there.
SLEEP
SLEEP