Back in July, I wrote about talking in my sleep. It's a common occurrence, really, and I find my midnight, slumbering musings entertaining. I actually woke myself up the other night, mumbling something along the lines of, "my legs hurt as much as a croquet stick."
And penguins. I'm pretty sure there were penguins in there, too.
One phrase that I did say was heard by Hans. We were vacationing at the lake at the time, so I had several summer-related utterings at the time, including "Mosquito bears."
Hans, most likely, rustled the sheets so he could hear me properly. "What about mosquito bears, Sweetie?"
I sighed woefully. "Mosquito bears. I have to protect them with suntan lotion."
A couple weeks later, in a different bed in a different state, Hans carried quite a conversation with the sleeping me.
"I'm laying down bread crumbs," I mumbled.
"What, Sweetie? Why are you doing that? Where are you going?"
Another deep sigh. "To the gingerbread house." I barely manage to wheeze out the sentence.
"Because it's for sale."
"But why are you laying down bread crumbs? Don't you want rocks?"
"No!" I sleepily snapped. "I don't like rocks. Bread crumbs," I stated matter-of-factly.
"Well, you're putting down bread crumbs. I can put down rocks."
"Nooo! They're ugly rocks!" I protested.
Hans snorted. "Ugly? Well, that way no one will pick them up."
"No. Bread crumbs!" A slight pause. "They have to pretty rocks." Suddenly, a burst of anger. Unknowingly, I punched Hans in the chest. "Why are you picking them up after me? I told you not to! I'll get lost!"
Hans didn't care. He rubbed the spot where I punched him and told me I was "done now." "Are you at the gingerbread house?" he asked.
(When writing this, I imagine myself to be gripping the boards of the house, the sill. My mouth wraps around the pane, my teeth gnawing at its sweet construction.) "I'm eating the window. It tastes like sandpaper."
"Wouldn't the owner be upset if you were eating their house?"
Darkly, I say, "The owner is dead."