Around one in the morning, Jess started grunting and flailing around in bed. After a few minutes, she sat up, whipped the comforter off and attempted to crawl over my broken leg, which was elevated on a pile of pillows. Jess talks in her sleep often, but this was the first time I’d experienced her sleepwalking in the nearly six years we’ve been together.
Me: “Jesus Christ, what are you doing? Go around my leg.”
Jess: “I have to…I have to…I have to…”
Me: “You have to what? Can I help you with something?” I clicked my reading light on.
Jess: “I have to slice.”
Me: “You have to what?!”
Jess: “I have to slice.”
Hoping she was talking about the soda or a bad golf swing and not the result of a knife sinking into husband meat, I watched as she stumbled out of bed, walked out of the bedroom, flicked the light on in the guest bedroom and stood in the doorway for a good ten seconds, staring into some strange world separated from ours by the veil of sleep.
Me: “Do you need something in there, babe?”
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