The Significance of Snoring

She tip-toes into the room, wary of the squeak the floorboards by the doorway make.  'It's too quiet in here,' she thinks.  By the dim light of the alarm clock she can make out the silhouette of a figure lying in the bed.  Standing still for a moment, she strains her ears and listens.  There it is... a soft snore.  Good, he's still asleep.

She makes her way through the room to the attached bathroom.  As she grabs a cloth and starts the tap to wash her face, she can't help but think back to when she didn't have to be so cautious.  He used to sleep deep.  'And snore really loudly,' she recalls.

-

She sleeps on one side of the long couch, in a large living room.  (It's too scary to sleep downstairs.)  The roof stretches way up and two skylights look down at the room, speckled by the pattering rain.  The other windows are tall, overlooking the spacious yard.  Through the open windows she can hear the cars as they pass by, their lights illuminating the room in a fell swoop.  She wraps her blanket tight around her curled up body, comforted by the sights and sounds.  There's one more sound tonight.  He's home and she can hear him snoring from his bedroom.  It's comforting.  She falls asleep, content.

-

He yells out in his sleep - nothing coherent - then tosses and turns in the bed before the snoring continues again.  This isn't knew.  She should be used to it, but every time he does it her heart still jumps.  Unwillingly, her brain reminds her why he does it.  Sleep apnea.  He stops breathing so his heart gives him a kick.  She doesn't let them know that it still bothers her.  It still frightens her.  "I could still live another 10 years - maybe more."  She wets the cloth and dabs her face, trying to concentrate on something besides her worries.

Everything goes quiet again.  Her heart sinks and she stands still, listening.  There it is... a soft snore.
Good, he's still alive.