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George Clooney’s Bed

Sometimes I use a scene from my life or an off-the-wall idea to practice creative writing here — in the same way any other writer would. Feedback is always welcomed and appreciated. Your impressions help me grow as a writer. 

          I dreamed again last night after a lonesome stretch, but woke uneasy after George Clooney came to nap and found me in his bed. He’d given me a heartfelt talk the last time he found me there, keeping his calm and explaining why he needed his space to be predictably his own. He had touched my wrist and given me that one last time as a buffer to help me cope (being kind enough not to say the icy word ‘over’ out loud), but he was cold now, and resigned, pacing at the foot of the bed first, then lying down on the other pillow as if he had no choice. I saw a hardness form inside him and knew the safe place for me was gone.

         I collected myself and stretched my pain into a little smile to soften it, hoping to signal sanity and melt his anguish as I prepared to leave. He averted his eyes and kept kindness and praise to himself as if he suddenly knew those things would kink into the situation, like spores, and grow weedlike into more of the same. I was ashamed to be his bad penny, who burned the kindness he had left between us before he knew better.

         His presence had comforted me in so many dreams before this, ones where I needed respite from spies who wanted me dead, ones where the things chasing me had no form, just intent to harm. This morning reality tainted another of my hidden corners. I want it to stop. Without George to listen or let me cuddle when night threatens to eat me alive, the tender parts of me threaten to disappear behind artificial shoulds and shouldn’ts. Why can’t I be safe while I’m tender? Why do I have to stew until I’m more than done, but toughened into a thing that bares less and less resemblance to who I was?

         I don’t always need to hide in my dreams; sometimes I fight and win. But tonight, if I’m able to sleep, I hope that dreams can be erased and repainted in warmer colors. Or that someone willingly takes George’s place and let’s me feel safe and quiet and myself when I need to, in those times when I need a bed that isn’t my own.



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