Five o’clock in the morning: I lie awake, worrying about Edgar. Not about Edgar himself, obviously, Edgar is the last person I need to worry about: I worry about the fact that Edgar of all people can’t sleep, and what that means for someone like me, who normally sleeps without a hint of a problem, when I thought Edgar was the kind of person who did so too; does that mean I have to worry about not being able to sleep, all of a sudden, just like Edgar?
It’s the kind of worry I least appreciate and am unable to see any sense in: it’s worrying about worrying: it’s a meta-worry. It’s a preposterousness, and that is in itself a worry: I now worry about the fact that I worry. About worrying.
My lover doesn’t notice I’m lying awake next to him, worrying, he just rasps a contented snore. He’s an uncomplicated sleeper. Sometimes he has nightmares that wake him up briefly, but he goes back to sleep easily and quickly. I think it might just be my clamping onto him that occasionally sets off a nightmare in him, but I don’t ask for fear that he’ll confirm that, yes, that’s what it is, because I like snuggling up to him: I spend the whole night resting my head on his chest, holding him; he holding me.
I arrange to see Edgar for a drink and he seems very happy. Tired, but fulfilled. In the course of our conversation — it’s been a while since we last met, so we have some catching up to do — I realise he’s become an expert in about half a dozen subjects, and he does not seem the least bit worried, about any of them, or about getting enough sleep:
‘Oh no,’ he laughs: I nap.’
‘When do you nap?’
‘When I’m tired.’
‘And then you sleep?’
‘No I nap, there’s a difference…’
‘I realise there’s a difference, but then at night, do you sleep?’
‘Oh no, at night I lie awake, reading.’
‘What are you reading about?’
‘At the moment I’m learning Rumantsch.’
‘You’re learning Rumantsch by reading?’
‘I read it at night, and practise it during the day.’