A Perfect Night's Sleep

I’ve never been a fabulous sleeper. When people talk about deep, dreamless sleep, or waking up after a full eight hours in the same position they fell asleep in, or actually waking up feeling refreshed, I cannot relate on any level but that of some sort of unreachable dream. I consider it a great night if I only get up twice to stare vacantly into the fridge. Consequently, my bedroom and, more importantly, my bed are my sanctuaries. I have a fetish for bedrooms. I lust after soft, smooshy beds and lavish pillows and expensive, highest thread count sheets. And the blanket,…truly, I have a weakness for blankets. I pile them on. My idea of a perfect bed is one you can burrow into and get lost, pretend you’re in the womb.

My bed sits right under my bedroom window where I can quite comfortably lay on my bed with my arms resting on the windowsill and watch the world go by. Just outside the window are two beautiful and verdant trees. I am on the second floor so if I stretch my imagination a bit and squint, I can fairly convince myself that I am snuggled in my own little nest perched in the tree branches. Humble perhaps, but my sanctuary of sanctuaries. The benefit of this vantage point is that I can see and hear a lot of things without being seen or heard myself.

I’ve witnessed a lot life’s joys and sorrows from my perch. Lovers, partygoers, enemies, and friends. I’ve seen late-night caresses, boundaries of feline territory fought for, won, and sometimes lost, games of tag and hide-and-seek, children acting out the way they do when they think no adult is watching. I’ve seen relationships end and mend, neighbors off to work in the morning looking sharp and back home in the evening looking bedraggled, babies become toddlers and then go off to school. Like I said, I’ve seen a lot of things.

One night last summer when J was gone for the weekend, I went to bed a little early to wallow in the luxury of having it all to myself. A night to sleep diagonally uninterrupted by unearthly snoring is a luxury indeed. I was watching a little cop drama to relax and heard an oboe. One unforgettable run, and I thought, “Weird. That can’t be.” And then the orchestra came in, and I turned to look in wonder out my window towards the balcony across from my bedroom. The guy that lives there was in his kitchen washing dishes at ten o’clock at night with “Rhapsody in Blue” bellowing out of his open windows. You have to understand, I don’t live in boho East Village, or cool Kensington. I live in an average condo complex full of average people in average Allied Gardens. George Gershwin wafting its way into my nest on that warm, summer wind was unexpected to say the least. I fumbled for the remote to turn off the tv and turned around to get a face full of that Gershwin breeze. The sky was clear and indigo, the birds were settling in and the tree frogs were waking up, and my neighbor’s windows glowed golden as I watched and listened rapt. He and I, unlikely and unknowing lovers sharing two private moments in two unconnected lives. And I whispered to myself, “Never forget this magic. Don’t ever forget this night.” I wept and thanked God and the universe for such perfection. And that night, I didn’t wake up until morning.

Mr. Bernstein, second best only to Mr. Gershwin himself... (I suggest playing while reading)