Wet Blanket

I woke up shivering and reached for the blanket. It was wet on one corner and I sat up in confusion. It took several moments for my mind to unfog itself enough to realize that the car’s front window was open again. And like usual in the cold, damp night of the Pacific Northwest, it was raining. I shoved the blanket off me and looked over at Pat who was asleep on the back seat. He reminded me of a giant, all tucked up into himself on the bench seat that I could stretch almost my whole body out on. An intense urge to slap him mingled with something else; love maybe. 

I did still catch myself feeling that way for him, like a glimmer of something I had once been embraced by but now only stood on the edge of. Deciding it was easier to feel this way when he was asleep and peaceful, the way he was right now, I chose not to wake him and leaned over to roll the window up myself. 

Yes, I loved him. I had to. If I didn't, what was this all for in the end? If I didn't find a way to hold onto it, this edge I was standing on with him, there would be no justification for all of the rain. I wrung out the soppy corner of the blanket and repositioned it so the wet end would be past my feet, but I could still feel the moisture and it was making me cold. I flipped over to my right side and after a few moments back to my left, then sat up again.

I listened to the rhythm of Pat's breathing filling the darkness. Carefully, I pulled Pat's blanket off him and replaced it with my smaller, wet one. I told myself he would not have deliberately opened the window for me to get rained on. Not knowing how sensitive I was to the cold. Not when sleeping in this car had already been the ultimate insult. He loved me. And therefore he would, of course, want me to be warm. Were he awake he would undoubtedly tell me so himself. I burrowed into the warmth of the blanket and went back to sleep.