I couldnât sleep.
The âroomâ Iâd been allotted as living quarters for the night was little more than a dry, dark hole. Had there been a window for light to shine through, I was certain that I would have seen dust motes dancing lightly in the air, because though I couldnât see them, I certainly felt them as they sock-hopped their way into my lungs with every breath that I took.
Why was I here?
My little brother had gotten married, that was why. And while the woman who had now been pronounced Nickâs wife was a lovely lady, Iâd be first in line to back up the claim that her parents were pushy people. Theyâd insisted that I not waste money on accommodations, that I stay with their daughter Evie instead. Though Iâd had it in my head to say noâin fact I was sure that Iâd done just that, several timesâhere I was, at Evieâs.
Which might have been okay, except that her parents had apparently offered her little ground-floor apartment to numerous other relatives as well, and since I wasnât ancient, like Grandpa Jim, or cantankerous, like Aunt Mary, I got the closet.
Squeezing my eyes shut as tightly as they would go, I tried to envision myself back home in my lovely big bed, with crisp sheets and a small, against-condo-regulations window air conditioner blowing blessedly frigid air into my face. Air icy enough to make my nipples contract and to have goose flesh rising up over my skin in waves.
It didnât work. All I could see in my mindâs eye was the undulating, oppressive dark. The dry dark, the desiccated dark.
I needed some air.
Gingerly, I rose to a sitting position, careful not to hit my head on the slanting overhang of the stairs above. I groped blindly, searching for the thick plastic frames of my glasses, which promptly steamed up on my nose, adding a thin white film to my already limited vision.
I felt an icy sheen of panic that wouldnât be melted away. I didnât normally suffer from claustrophobia of any kind, but I had to get out of this closet.
Now.
The knob of the ancient wooden door needed a good dose of oil, and it squealed as I turned it. By that point, I didnât care.
If I couldnât sleep, then I didnât see why anyone else should either.
Still, I padded as quietly as I could across hardwood gone sticky in the heat. An empty Brita filter lying open on the counter made my spirits dive down deep, quashing all my hopesâfor a cool drink to help me beat the heat, for the alleviation of some of the discomfort caused by being stuck in a cramped little apartment hot enough to bake a loaf of bread right on the counter, for helping me bear the heavy fabric of the only pajamas I considered appropriate for staying over at someone elseâs house as they glued themselves to my skin with a thin film of sweat.
The closer I got to that back door, the less concerned I became with stealth. Surely Nickâs new grandpa-in-law would understand a little noise when the goal was a breath of air that didnât sear the lining of my lungs like the seventh circle of hell.
I stepped out into the tiny backyard, a postage stamp of rapidly browning grass, and let the ancient, dull metal of the screen door slap shut behind me. I didnât even wince at the loud, metallic clang, because finally, finally I was outside. Outside where the air, while still uncomfortably warm, was at least fresh with the scents of summer: the crisp smell of grass that had baked all day in the sun, and the moist aroma of earth as it cooled for the evening.
The smell of freedom.
Well, that was an exaggeration, and I knew it. But something about trying to sleep in Evieâs tiny apartment, which was also the resting place for a handful of other family members after the last thick dregs of nuptial celebrations had melted away, had made me feel incredibly uncomfortable. As though a herd of ants had crawled its way under my skin.
And I was pretty sure that that feeling wasnât just from the extra glass of rich red wine that Iâd indulged in. No, something about the entire night was getting to me, was making me itch, and, try as I might, I just couldnât reach the right spot to scratch.
The eventide air was a balm, though. It didnât remove the itch, but it soothed it, just a bit.
Maybe Iâd just sleep out here. Just stretch out on that rickety plastic lounger. It might not be the best nightâs sleep Iâd ever had, but at least the slight drop of temperature as bright, celebratory day melted into dusky twilight, and twilight into brooding night would allow the drops of sweat that dripped down the curve of my spine to tickle at the crevice that divided my ass to dry.