"I need to find the hose that fits this," he said, sitting straight up in bed, grabbing the tail of the stuffed snow leopard that I had wrapped under my arm. I sleep with the snow leopard. His name is Herman. It was after midnight, and, well, I was sleeping.
So was he.
He has a habit of doing things in his sleep. Walking. Talking. Unplugging the television, VCR and Playstation 2. Turning on the lights, turning off the fan. Walking to the entertainment center and gently petting the wooden cat figure that rests on top.
He was stressed about work yesterday. Something about watering the greens. Hoses? I don't know. We also spent an entire day at a water park. Perhaps his brain was waterlogged. Whatever the case may be, he decided, at 12:30 a.m., that he needed to find that hose.
I've learned, through time, to ignore him as he ventures into God knows what in the middle of the night, because waking him? Not kosher with him at all. Although, sometimes, for fun, I'll play along.
"There's no hose here, honey. This is my leopard," I said, amused. And also tired.
He ignored me, of course, and began searching through the covers, getting increasingly frustrated that he couldn't find the hose. Before long, he was on his feet, searching under the nightstand. On the floor. Out the window?
I rolled over, as he began to audibly express his frustration, until he picked up the comforter and ripped it off the bed, because that hose? It must be there. And someone is hiding it from him! I rolled back toward his side of the bed, and waited patiently for him to lay back down. It's kind of a waiting game, because you can't really interrupt him.
Eventually he sat down, looking confused, but apparently still in search of the hose, which, turns out, was not under the covers, under the night stand, on the floor, out the window, or attached to the tail of my snow leopard, Herman.
And so he looked at me, as I lay under the sheet. The comforter was still on the floor. It was me. I must be hiding the hose. He tried to fuss with the sheet; get underneath it, most likely, but I had it wrapped under my legs. And so as he sat on the bed, in his boxers, he reached into what I assumed to be his "back pocket," pulled out what I assumed to be "a knife" and attempted to cut the sheet around my legs, "cutting" perfectly straight lines around the edges of my legs.
At this point I couldn't handle the insanity, and I pressed my palm against his chest and forced him to lie down. Hell, for all I knew, he'd stab me with his imaginary knife when he realized cutting the sheet wouldn't cut it. Literally.
I partially snapped him out of his hose adventure, and he grumpily picked up the comforter and piled it on top of him, while I remained, cold, under only the bed sheet. Which was still in tact, by the way.
I gently reminded him this morning that he was a freak, and we laughed, as we usually do when he unknowingly ventures into the night. Like that one time he picked up all the tea lights from the shelf and insisted that someone stole our stereo speakers. We don't have a stereo.
I love him. Until one night he gets up and starts playing golf in the living room.