Taylor has the honor of being the weirdest sleeper that I have ever met.
He wakes up at six or six thirty every morning. Possibly as a side effect he falls asleep at nine every night, and this is not just a dozey ‘oops, maybe it’s time to go to bed’ kind of sleep. This is some crazy medieval style ‘can only be woken by love’s first kiss’ kind of sleep.
And the things that boy does in his sleep, I tell you what. Taylor is normally a very good-natured, sweet guy. He does the dishes and he tells me I’m pretty and he doesn’t complain when I walk around after a shower and drip my wet hair all over the place. When he is asleep, though? His temper does a complete 180.
The other night I went to bed early-ish and lay awake messing around on the computer while Taylor snored away next to me. At about 11:30 I decided it was about time to click the light off. I shut the computer, set it on the floor next to the bed, and shifted. Taylor startled, and turned over, looking at me out of wide, red-rimmed eyes.
“No,” he said. “I want the nerd one.”
“What?” I asked him. He frowned.
“I said I want the snuf gluf uffle bop.”
“Okay,” I said slowly. “You are talking in your sleep, and I have no idea what you’re saying.”
Taylor sighed. It was the sort of exaggerated sigh that told me clearly that Taylor felt I was being very stupid.
“I want the nerdy one,” he repeated clearly. He glared at me, waiting for me to take some kind of action.
“Right,” I said. “Okay. I understand that, but you are talking in your sleep, and you-”
“NO, I’M NOT,” Taylor groaned. “AUUGH. YOU ARE SO FRUSTRATING.”
“Calm down. Remember the other day, when we joked about how grouchy you get when you’re asleep, but you think you’re awake?”
“That’s what you’re doing.”
“THAT IS NOT WHAT I AM DOING. WHY CAN’T YOU UNDERSTAND ME.”
In a gesture of spite, Taylor violently turned onto his back, seizing as many blankets as he could carry with him. I tried not to laugh at him. When Taylor is being Very Serious, it is generally best not to laugh.
“You don’t listen to me,” Taylor said morosely, grimacing at the ceiling. I sighed.
“Okay. Tell me again, very slowly and clearly, what you want.” I cuddled up next to him, my body nearly exploding from all the suppressed giggling.
“Fine,” Taylor said. He turned his head towards me, and overenunciated every word with a sense of cruel derision. “A. Pre. Drawn. Horse.”
“A pre-drawn horse?”
“You want a pre-drawn horse?”
“You are so frustrating right now. You don’t even know.”
“What’s a pre-drawn horse?”
Taylor made a noise as though I had just asked him what the moon was, or how to do an Interweb Search on The Google.
“I’m going to tell you about this tomorrow, and you’re going to laugh about it,” I said.
“Whatever. I’ll remember it. I’m NOT asleep. You always think I’m asleep, but I’m NOT.” Taylor squeezed his eyes shut, signaling how utterly done he was trying to deal with me.
I shut off the light, and lay there, shaking every few minutes with silent laughter. Within seconds, Taylor’s breathing was slow and even. The next morning he cheerfully woke me up, with zero memory of the event.
He still has no clue what a ‘pre-drawn horse’ is.