I slip my wedding ring off to give my face a good rinse, as I do routinely before going to bed, and set it beneath the lamp on my bedside table. It’s not that it’s anything less than stunning or that I don’t love wearing it, but because it scratches up my left cheek when I rinse. I’ve often walked past the jewelry repair shop on my way to work, but always decided against getting it smoothed, ground, or whatever tricks the man would pull to fix it up. There seems to be no point. I wear it during daylight and not during my dreams. It’s only for comfort’s sake. My husband has never noticed, or perhaps he has, but didn’t think anything of it. I never thought anything of it either. During the day, the world can look at my left hand and see I am married. But that’s all they know.

They don’t know that I wouldn’t get a drop of sleep tonight.

A chilly breeze rolls through the sheets from my toes to my cheeks. The clock reads 11:47. It’s too cold, that’s why. The covers spill onto the hardwood floors when I pull my bare feet out of bed and onto the ground. My arms pull the shutters closed and the blind down.

A few minutes pass with the weight of the covers again upon me. It’s too hot. I give myself a few minutes to let my mind and body be overcome by sleep, but it doesn’t come. I kick the quilt to the foot of the of bed and lay still, but nothing changes. It’s really quite tiresome not being tired.

I ease myself out of bed and fall to my hands and knees to better find my way across the bedroom floor. Sliding my hand up the wall, the switch is hit and the room flickers with light for a second or two before it decides to settle to a steady stream.

The blank wall stares me straight in the eyes. Sleep normally sweeps me away into my dreams by 10 o'clock, but tonight he is steering clear. I might as well be keep myself busy if there are so many hours until dawn. If I begin to drift away I will happily let myself drift, but now, there exists not a drop of fatigue in my blood, I am bright as the sun.

My husband is away on a business, as he often is, something about trading, but he never goes into detail. He says I wouldn’t understand. So waking him for company was not an option.

Waking the kids at this hour would be cruel, they most likely would have school tomorrow, so I wouldn’t wake any kids if I had them. Husband says it’s impossible for us to have kids yet. Not enough time.

What to do, what to do.

I see the subtle highlights and shadows of edges and corners through my empty bedroom doorway, and decide to head to the kitchen. No better way to start my night off than with a good snack.

A bag of purple tortilla chips, a jar of salted almonds, one speckled banana, a jar of pickles, a corner of bread from the freezer, a can of diet coke, and a bag of fuzzy blue shredded mozzarella. I set all I have dug up on the center table, scattered around the sandy vase of wilted flowers. Nothing catches my attention nor pulls at my hunger.

I think I might go get a donut. I assume I can find an open shop somewhere at this late hour. There’s always a place open in New York. The food items are shuffled back into their corresponding kitchen compartments and I swipe the car keys from the counter.

A donut. Seems a rather simple common food, but I haven’t had one since marriage. It’s not that donuts are the sole subject of my everyday thoughts. In the house we never have any sweets, because the husband doesn’t believe in that sort of thing, so I guess I’m never exposed to any thoughts of donuts. But I’ve never been awake at midnight. On this particular midnight a donut is all I want.

I save my chocolate covered with sprinkles to enjoy it in the solitude of my home. Four bedrooms --one converted to an office for the occasion that the husband is not away,-- a dining room with a chandelier, a kitchen with the sink looking over our small flower garden, and a living room with two couches. I choose the living room and the green couch. The green couch wouldn’t catch your attention beside the second one, but its hug is warmer than that of the leather couch.

I untwist the paper bag and reach my bony fingers inside.

It tastes like nothing I have ever seen. Nothing I have ever smelled. Or heard. Or felt. Or tasted. Better than any from before the marriage. The subtle cracks of the cooled glaze were felt by every corner of my tongue. The warm sweetness was infecting. It travelled up into my mind and down into my torso, through every vein and into every cell. Too quickly it was all over, but I was left a brush stroke of chocolate on my smile.

The night slips into morning. 1 am. 2 am. I spend the hours reading books I had bought for myself at garage sales or the annual charity book sale. I had read most of them once or twice over already, but they are more meaningful this time. I read faster than I ever have, but I am not skimming. I read with even more attention than ever before and my eye catches all the detail.

6am and the light begins to filter through. 6:02 is a rusty fuchsia. 6:05 is a foggy coral. 6:10 is a passionate red, so bright I think I have discovered a new unknown color. By 6:24 it’s faded back to its regular old self, plain white.

Officially morning I venture into my closet and come out wearing nothing, with a t-shirt and jeans over my shoulder. I set them on the bed. I look into the mirror nailed into the back of my door and notice I am different. I can’t tell why. Maybe I look a bit stronger. A tad taller. My body is radiant and glowing. I don’t recall for how long I’m rooted in front of the mirror. I have never given myself a good lookover until now, and I am proud.

There is a knock at the door. Perhaps the mail boy saw the living room light on through the window and wished to let me know that the paper had arrived. I wiggle into my jeans and t-shirt and give myself one last grin in the mirror.

It’s the husband.

“Hi sweetie”

“Hello” I respond. I look down to hide the puzzled look that must have appeared on my face. But when I look back up into his eyes, they are fixed behind me.

“I took a red eye to make it back for a meeting in the city today, and I thought I’d come change and say good morning” He smiles, still looking past me, perhaps into the kitchen, or at a bird flying through our humble garden.

“Should I fix you up some breakfast?” The words escape my lips before I remember there isn’t anything in the household that could be considered breakfast. Unless he wants a speckled banana. But that needn’t much fixing up.

“I ate at the airport” He walks past me to the leather couch and drops his briefcase beside it as he sinks in. “Thank you” The husband quickly adds.

Suddenly I remember, and run back into the bedroom to see it safely beneath my reading lamp. Picking it up I slip it back onto my second to last finger and reach my hand out to give it a good look.