There’s a chance it may be true.
Don’t get me wrong. I didn’t want to have to kill him. But he left me no choice. And look on the bright side! Think of all the time prison will give me to write!
But I’m getting ahead of myself, aren’t I?
Why, I hear you ask, would a normally reasonable woman hold a pillow over her husband’s head until he ceased to struggle?
I’ve been told that I, too, snore; and if you know me, you know that this is a damnable lie, perhaps perpetrated by mine enemies, people who will also tell you that I need help with crossword puzzles (not true) and cadge cigarettes when intoxicated (quite possibly true).
But snoring? Me?
Hey. This isn’t about me. This is about William Throckmorton the III, the man bent on destroying me through sleep deprivation.
Of course I have my coping mechanisms…
For example, my initial response to the snoring is a brief but vigorous shaking of the bed. My thinking here is that he will, whilst asleep, believe that there might be an earthquake or a tornado happening, thus causing him to alter his breathing patterns.
This never works, but it’s always in my first round of defense.
Next comes the verbal jab. “Willie! Stop snoring! Roll onto your belly! Willie!!”
This usually works for a minute or two, as Willie’s unconscious mind registers a number of things:
- That’s my name;
- What's that sound? Sounds like my wife, and;
- Grblx zinkt offun garbin.
And resumes a vigorous snoring.
It is at this point that I become inventive.
“Willie! Did you see that letter from the IRS?” This usually produces some interest.
“The letter from the IRS," I say. "Did you see it? About the child support!”
Willie has no children, but this last sentence causes him to stop snoring, and, briefly, to stop breathing entirely. The room then takes on an expectant air; and while still asleep, his breathing conveys an even-keeled quality rarely found in his waking moments.
“I sent them an e-mail. Luckily, since we won the lottery this afternoon we’re going to just write them a check, okay?”
“Sphurbim. Bracken farva lottery shopping spree.”
“And remodel the bathroom, right?”
Willie loves this part. Our bathroom appears to have been originally modeled on the 70s sitcom “Good Times”, or perhaps “Maude”. Suffice it to say that the color once referred to as “Harvest Gold” figures prominently.
There are several pink, sandpaper-like flower-shaped no-slip stickers still grimly clinging, with 1970s style tenacity, to the bottom of the bathtub.
I'll say no more about that.
“Mmmm,” he says as he drifts back to sleepy-time. “Bran' new tubbinshower. Grblx zinkt offun garbin."
"That's what I'm thinking,” I say.
And on a good night, that will take care of the snoring.