ONE
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TRISTAN
Brisbane, Australia
Sometimes, when I’m at my worst, I wonder if I’ll ever sleep again. Maybe I’m doomed to remain stuck here forever, trapped in this wasteland of eternal consciousness. Kept alive by microsleeps and a lack of alternatives.
Rubbing at the gritty feeling behind my eyelids, I ignore the silent invitation of my empty coffee mug and focus on the spreadsheet in front of me. The numbers stopped making sense sometime late last night. Today they’ve gone a step further, breaking free of their respective cells to dance across the computer screen in a pixelated rumba of dollar signs and chaos. I blink a few times, exaggerating the motion in the hope of forcing the rebellious little buggers back into line.
My father expects this proposal in his inbox early tomorrow morning. It’s the first time he’s entrusted a task of this magnitude solely to me since I started working here full-time eighteen months ago. This is my chance to prove to everyone my place in the company is based on more than nepotism. I refuse to allow my insomnia to undermine me now.
I’m finally getting a handle on the last of the figures for the proposal when a business card drops onto my desk with a modest thwack. I stare at the plain, white rectangle in surprise. Three words are printed across the centre in a fine, scripted font.
Sleep with Me.
My gaze lifts, along with my eyebrows, but my mouth maintains its customary downward tilt. “Thanks for the offer,” I tell the man grinning at me from the far side of the desk, “but I think we’re better off as friends.”
George barks out a short laugh. “No kidding. Even if I did play for your team, grumpy workaholics wouldn’t be rocking my boat.” He gestures to the business card. “Alice gave me that.”
Even I can’t resist cracking a smile now. “I’m not going to sleep with your wife, either.”
Rolling his eyes, George drops into my extra office chair. “It’s an app she’s using. She’s been telling everyone who’ll listen how great it is and handed me a stack of those cards to give out here at the office.” He lowers his voice, as if his wife may overhear him through some form of marital telepathy. “I think she’s trying to up the subscription rate.”
“It’s a flop, huh?” Most apps fail once they hit the open market. It’s a tough business with a tougher clientele—most of whom prefer not to pay for anything at all if they can get away with it.
“Don’t know for sure,” he says with a shrug. “But it’s supposed to help people sleep so, when she gave me the cards, I thought of you.”
“Why?” I hardly go around confessing the sins of my wakefulness to my colleagues. Not even George, and he’s the closest thing I’ve had to a friend since I started working here.
He waves a hand in the general direction of my face. “I thought it might help with the whole bags under the eyes, coffee for days, sleep deprivation thing you’ve got going on.” My frown deepens and he snorts in amusement. “Oh, I’m sorry, is you looking like shit for the past month supposed to be some kind of secret?”
I sit up straighter. Apparently not. Picking up the card, I turn it over to read the other side. “Sam Stephenson.” The name is printed in thick black ink, with a smaller title,Meditation Teacher, and a simple tagline. “The space where meditation meets slumber.” The barest contact details are provided on the bottom. A link for the app and addresses for the website and email. No phone number. No social media.
“Sam’s a local guy,” George says. “He runs classes out of a studio under his house. Alice has been going for the last few months and he made the app for people like her.”
My gaze shifts back to his. “She has trouble sleeping?”
He waggles his eyebrows. “Not anymore.”
With a tight smile, I tuck the business card into my pocket. Because binning it in front of him would be rude. “Thanks for thinking of me. Now you’ve told me how shit I look, I’ll be sure to give it a try.” I place my hand over my mouse in a silent indication of my need to get back to work.
“No, you won’t,” George scoffs, getting up from the chair. “But I did my part and gave out the cards.”
I cast a dubious look in his direction. “You gave out one card.”
“Was it only one?” Reaching into his wallet, he tosses a few more onto the desk. “Have some extras, in case you lose the first one. You know, by accident.” Smirking his satisfaction, he strolls back to the open doorway. “I’m off. Have a good night, Tristan.”
“You, too.” I wait for him to close the door before I push the extra business cards aside. George is right, I have no intention of downloading Sam Stephenson’s app. I’ve already tried meditation. It doesn’t work for me. None of the usual tricks and techniques work for me—except maybe sleeping pills. They come with their own problems. All things considered, I’d rather be awake.
Over the years, I’ve come to accept my insomnia, the same way I’ve accepted the other facets of my penance. They’re a part of me. They’re necessary. And they’re deserved.
I doubt some hippy woo-woo meditation guru is going to show up out of the blue and provide a miracle cure for what ails me. The universe, in all its infinite bitchiness, doesn’t work that way.
My hand travels the length of my face in another vain attempt to scrub away the tired. When that doesn’t work, I grab my coffee mug and head to the break room for a refill. There is work to be done, and I’m not going anywhere until it’s finished.
A few hours later, the sound of an alarm yanks at my attention. Grunting in frustration, I fish my phone out from under some papers. The wordsGO HOMEglare at me from the screen, accompanied by a series of suitably annoying beeps.
