My bed is starting to get crowded. Bert bought me a croc stuffed toy to accompany my caveman teddy.
I have a small bed. Good enough for just one person and good enough for me—in Port Moresby anyway.
I wonder how Ces dozes a non-alcoholic night away when she’s got an entire outback of space in her king-sized bed. I’ll find it daunting if I were her. Hell, every toss and turn is a reminder that there’s no one to nudge and grumble “move over fart!” at.
A few weeks ago, I had dinner with Ces.
Struggling with her chopsticks, she asked me: “WHEN will I be truly happy?” I wanted to tell her to visit the furniture shop. But I didn’t wish to go all too cynical before my tempura. I faked a sigh instead.
An ex told me that happiness is a state of mind. I didn't understand what he meant. I was 16 going on 17 then (21, if you really want to know the truth).
I gather that happiness doesn’t come in one she-bang. Not in one lump-sum. It comes in pieces. You have to see to it that each piece will make life bearable, a bit like a game of tetris. Bricks of assorted shapes trickle one after another for you to sort out. Sometimes you get the easily maneuverable pieces and sometimes you get the tricky odd-shaped ones like the crosses, T's or the L's. You just have to be smart about it to score points.
After the dinner my phone rang and it’s midnight-caller/stalker on the other line, offering his bed for the night.
I sighed (this time it’s genuine), wished him a good night (not) and for the nth time refused his offer.
That night I slept in my small bed with caveman, croc and a 100 unread pages of Sharon Creech.