The Last Thing We Do Before Sleep

At 10.43, every evening Mara puts two glasses of water on the bedside table.

One on her side. One on his.

The second glass remains untouched.

She says it helps her sleep.

At first, it really did.

After Daniel left home, she could not help on waking up in the night. Every sound felt unfinished. The apartment was tilted, as though something heavy was taken out on one side of it. The silence pressed in.

The initial evening she filled the second glass unconsciously. Habit. Muscle memory. Eight years of skimming by two, not one.

She nearly emptied it back into the sink.

Instead, she left it there.

She slept through the night.

After that, she kept doing it.

Not since she thought nothing unusual. Not that she believed he would come back. It was just convenient than to quit. Convenient than acknowledging the habit was discontinued.

then every night at 10.43 she fills up two glasses.

She brushes her teeth.

She checks the locks.

She switches off the lights in that order kitchen, corridor, living room.

Bedroom last.

“Goodnight,” she says, quietly.

At first, she said it as a joke. A private embarrassment.

And then she ceased thinking of it.

The ceremony established itself.

The initial instance when something was wrong was in three months time.

She woke thirsty.

Her own glass was empty.

The other one was half gone.

She stood there a long time, with the glass in her hand, and wondering whether or not she had drunk the wrong one.

People do that. Half asleep. Automatic.

The two glasses were cleaned in the morning, and she never thought of it again.

The same occurred the following week.

Not empty. Just less full.

She said to herself the apartment was dry. Water evaporates. Glasses sweat. Memory slips.

She even purchased new glasses.

Thicker ones. Harder to mistake.

The ritual continued.

10:43.

Two glasses.

“Goodnight.”

Sleep.

She started getting up early before the alarm.

Not suddenly. Gently. She was called by name as though someone in a different room had called her name.

Nothing was ever there.

The second glass would at times be shifted. An inch closer to the edge. Turned slightly.

One time she discovered it on a coaster that she never used.

It was after the third time that someone laughed and she stopped bringing it up to friends.

“You’re grieving,” they said.

“You’re lonely.”

Both things were true.

Neither felt like the answer.

The messages began during winter.

Not messages exactly.

Just small things.

The window was unlocked when she realized that she had closed it.

The blanket came still closer about her feet.

When she awoke she found her side of the mattress warm, but she never slept with anyone.

She told herself that bodies are a source of heat. Apartments settle. Old buildings shift.

At ten-thirty she continued filling two glasses.

It was worse to stop than to keep on.

One night, she forgot.

She fell asleep on the couch.

As she awoke at 2:17 the apartment felt to be wrong. Too quiet. As of taking a step in the stair.

There was just a single glass on the table in the bedroom.

Full.

The other space empty.

Before returning to the kitchen she stood a long time.

She filled the second glass trembling with hands.

I am sorry, she thought without replying.

She slept badly that night.

Never again after that did she forget.

The ritual became precise.

10:43 exactly.

Same amount of water.

Same placement.

She started uttering the goodnight more loudly.

Not hopeful. Just careful.

Spring came.

She started dating again.

Nothing serious. Coffee. Dinners. Discussions that were terminated with grace.

No one stayed over.

She said to herself that it was because she was not ready.

The reality was more difficult to describe.

She could not think of not putting aside the second glass.

Daniel was the first person to notice it.

He had come to retrieve the remnants of his belongings.

“You still do that?”

“It helps me sleep.”

He didn’t ask anything else.

He cleared a space on the second glass before getting away by moving the second glass.

That night Mara woke up choking on air, her heart galloping, when something must have shaken her.

The second was the one that was smashed on the floor.

Before morning she cleaned it up.

Purchased another set of the same.

Years passed.

The ritual remained.

Friends married. Had children. Moved away.

Mara stayed.

10:43.

Two glasses.

“Goodnight.”

At times, she imagined that she heard breathing next to her. Slow, steady. Familiar.

She never turned to check.

One day she woke up one night and she knew that something was different.

The second glass was empty.

Not half. Not moved.

Empty.

She sat up, waiting for fear.

It didn’t come.

Only a strange relief. As though a long-awaited thing had come to pass.

“Okay,” she said softly.

No answer came.

The apartment felt still.

Complete.

She slept profoundly after a long time.

She refilled two glasses again the following night at 10:43.

She did not wonder whether to stop.

Not all of the habits are related to the belief.

There are just the remaining form of love.

At morning her own glass was still full.

The other one was not.