Sleep-Eating

 “I saw Ruffles in the trash can this morning.”

This was Lucy, to Brandon, in our kitchen.

Lucy with her brown-rimmed glasses, the beginning of a familiar laugh tickling cheeks and buzzing at her lips, her baggy high school soccer shirt hanging off her shoulders.

“Lady Falcons” in bulky red letters laid vibrantly across a soft cement gray, a color combination only intended for high school t-shirts.

 

It was Saturday.

Saturdays are slow these days, meant for conversations like this one, in the kitchen. 

Mismatched socks, messy hair.

Coffee and maze-like exchanges about our day’s plans that are never actually plans this early, just ideas.

 

One Saturday, Prince was the topic of conversation and how we all seemed to miss that particular fan wave, and we were sad about that. (Was it too late?)

“How did he die exactly?”

Brandon explained.

“Where was he from?”

Lucy answered. 

 

This was that kind of Saturday.

 

“Yeahh.. “ Brandon inched in with a leaning voice and a side eye.

“The Ruffles… that was me.”

 

His confession was playful as that same tickling threat of a laugh circled his mouth.

 

See, sleepwalking is not exactly Brandon.

His eyes don’t easily cater to pitch-black hallways and sharp kitchen counter corners but, sleep-eating is a constant friend of his.

Chip-crunching, powerbar-smashing, and sugary fingertips are all a part of the adventure of lying next to Brandon at night.

Thankfully, I am a heavy sleeper and I hardly even notice.

Until of course, someone finds Ruffles in the trashcan.