Hey Come To

‘Hey, come to,’ I said. I shook him again, but he did not stir. His head lolled around listlessly, a heavy bulb on a paper string, I grabbed his shoulders and shook him, hard, lifting his head from the floor, my hand beneath it to stop it striking the polished wood. What to do? What to do? I thought, clicking my fingers and looking about absently. Some water maybe. No, need to get him up. Walk him through to his room. Put him down on the bed.

Crouching low below him, I lift up an arm and slide my head and shoulder in under it. Rocking in circles slightly I am able to wedge in and get an angle to clasp his chest and lift him up using my legs at the knees to lift him up. He is just under a foot taller than me and so I am stretching to get him up on his legs, which drag and catch on the furniture as I stagger with him to his room. He is a dead weight and I’m exhausted with the exertion by the time he flops headlong onto the bed. He moans slightly and immediately goes into deep snoring, stilted slightly every fourth or fifth breath, where the air comes through strained.

I place a glass of water on his bedside table later, and then turn off the light and close the door. He will sleep the deepest sleep. And he’ll make the coffee in the morning upon awaking, and we’ll both sit and stand, talking and smoking, combing our hair and showering, and then the both of us will head off to work.