slumber.

I think everyone has partaken in the odd evening of hypothetical conversation, usually after an evening of wine (or any other preferred stimulant). Camaraderie is running high and all parties feel inclined to talk and hypothesize about themselves while striving to glean as much information as possible about their companions. Questions abound regarding who would pen your biography, what you would read on a desert island, and where you would go during your last week to live. What your choice between two equally unlikely Faustian situations would be, and who from history would receive an invitation to your dinner party are discussed at length.

Of course, these evenings are never complete until you’ve discussed your smoldering homestead. If your house was burning down, and all pets and loved ones (as well as liked ones, moderately disliked ones, and people you feel a general indifference towards) are already safe, what would you rescue from the inferno? Apparently the answer is supposed to reveal something about your values and what is important to you. Or rather it would, if everyone didn’t automatically reach for their laptop on the grounds that, in addition to being the most expensive and easy to carry thing in the apartment, frankly, it just plain holds the most stuff on it. Of course when the “and not your laptop” clause is added to the situation the responses expand to include pre-digital photographs, jewellery (at least one person is virtually required to cite their grandmother’s engagement ring), and maybe if they’re honest, the stash of post-op codeine pills with the unrenewable prescription. On the whole, it’s going to be some family jewellery, a grandfather’s war medal or some other trinket already prominently displayed in the apartment or on their person. Basically, you learn absolutely nothing new about your companions; just a rehashing of their pride and joy which they already take every chance to highlight.

I suppose this might take on a new degree of credibility or interest if you have actually found yourself in this situation and knew all occupants of your building were safe and a handsome fireman had your laptop tucked under his arm, leaving your hands free to collect one souvenir from your home moments before a smoky hellish ball of flames engulfs it all. However, fire standards being what they are today, the majority of people are fortunate enough to make it through their lives without experiencing this. Nonetheless, either in reality or in the realm of the hypothetical, it still seems a fairly useless indicator of a person’s character.

I found myself pondering this the other week when I discovered myself in a remotely similar situation. Similar, but much more commonplace and much more conducive to self-exploration. Also, much less life-threatening with less heroism involved, although it’s best not to dwell on that as it makes me look petty and small. This catalyst for introspection seems to be an inevitable point in most relationships and it caught me off-guard last week.

Dinner is winding down. It’s getting late and the sad realization that it’s a weeknight has presented itself. In the past, this hasn’t posed too much of an inconvenience for me; I get up and shower, then the Boy showers while I dry and straighten my hair and get dressed. We both leave the house by 7:30 and everyone gets to work on time. Well, if you want to be specific about it, I get to work on time, he loiters in a café then presumably wanders the streets until it’s time for him to go to work, at which point he stills arrives before the rest of his office. As we sort out the tip and finish our wine, it happens. The dreaded question slips out of his mouth; can’t he stay in bed an extra hour after I’ve left? The flat door locks automatically when it’s shut. Only someone with mild paranoia with neuroses aplenty would have a problem with it after we’ve known each other this long, right? I open and close my mouth a few times. A sputtering noise may have unconsciously escaped, I can’t be sure. Deep inside my head a little man in a lab coat is yelling at his staff while beating a pointing stick against a formula-ridden chalk board and cursing an oversized hamster on the wheel to run faster and speed up the thought process. There must be some valid reason why he can’t stay that extra hour. The excuses ricochet off the walls of my skull and I grasp desperately for one with a shred of credibility. The bed is spring-loaded and automatically folds up into the wall at 7:35, and you might be hideously decapitated as a result. I need someone to escort me to the train station in case I lose my way. I treasure the extra minutes we have together as we walk out of the house together. I keep an ill-tempered cobra named Marcel in a basket in the closet and only I know the right song to play on my snake-charming pipe to pacify him. I look searchingly into his eyes and wonder if he’s dumb enough or drunk enough to believe any of these.

Apparently, sometimes honesty is the best policy. The hamster wipes his sweaty brow with his little paw and slows to a jog on the wheel. The man in the lab coat shrugs in defeat as my brain and mouth agree on a reply. “Of course that’s fine. But, no rummaging.” He laughs and kisses me on the forehead. “Seriously, I’ll know and I’ll be fucking pissed.” The smile fades from his face for a moment before I lightheartedly laugh and he joins in. “Seriously, though…I will harm you.”

* * *

Normally, when the alarm starts its hideous faux-cricket chirping at the crack of dawn I complain bitterly and ignore it for a few minutes before clumsily fumbling around and resetting it for later. Today I silence it after its first electronic chirp and am instantly wide awake. I gently stroke the Boy’s hair until he seems lulled back into a deep sleep. His lack of acknowledgment of my finger softly prodding between his vertebrae is encouraging. The clock tells me I have exactly ten minutes to perform my covert task before I start getting ready and the shower and various hair appliances inevitably compromise his slumber. Ten minutes to get the flat ready for any manner of potential rummaging.

When 7:28 arrives I’m dressed, made-up and perched on the edge of the bed in shoes and trenchcoat. He awakes sleepily as I say goodbye. “You’re sure it’s alright if I stay?” I kiss my finger and place it on the tip of his nose, “Of course, take all the time you need.” He slides deeper beneath the covers with a contented smile gracing his lips as I confidently stride out the door.

* * *

That’s it. Those precious Proustian minutes between sleep and wake. What are you so desperate to hide and keep revealed from prying eyes. What do you already keep hidden in your flat that you feel the need to hide even more deeply in case someone does a little investigative journalism in your absence? That’s what reveals most about you, not some trinket you display in a case, a frame, or on a delicate chain around your neck. In some ways, it’s even more pressing than the fire question. If you make the wrong choice in the hypothetical fire, all your rejected choices go up in flames and can’t return to haunt you. Here, your rejected choices risk public disclosure, the very thing you are most desperate to avoid.

So, what is it? What do you slide into an envelope and push to the centre of the space under the bed with a broom handle (before snapping the broom handle and making a mental note to buy a new one on the way home from work)? What do you stuff into your well-chosen oversized tote and take with you to the office that day? An assortment of pay stubs? A file with cut outs from bridal magazines, colour swatches and sketches of wedding dresses? Your most scandalous lingerie that you save for Mr. Little-Something-Something-On-The-Side? Your fat pants or skinny jeans? Very recent cards from ex-boyfriends whom you’ve sworn you were out of contact with? Invoices from your cosmetic surgeon? The latest, and already affectionately well read, Tiffany’s catalogue with post-it flags marking pages with your choice cuts of diamond engagement rings? Spare me knowing that you aspire to write a book, want to go back in time to ancient Egypt, and that your dream job is to be a screenwriter. I have no doubt that you do want to go to Australia before you die, invite Oscar Wilde to your dinner party, and interview Jesus while he hangs like a limp haddock on the cross. I want to know what you’re hiding in your apartment that you don’t want your date or anyone else to find.

As for me, I’ll never tell. However, I will say that when I returned that evening before I had a chance to look for hints of rummaging I found my wall clock lying on the floor with one hand slightly bent. As an apology later revealed, sometimes you also need to be concerned that someone will attempt to put a battery in your forever-motionless clock and it will inadvertently slide off the hook on the wall when the front door is closed. I thought had prepared the place for everything, but hadn’t anticipated that.