I have been wrestled from the couch to the bed with the obscure demand by special k to “Come and lie in bed but not go to bed yet.”
I’m wide awake and still a bit in the dark as to what exactly he wants of me, but here we lie, side-by-side. (Okay, side by back – rare is the night when he feels compelled to lie towards me.)
We live in the inner city of Melbourne, right between two 24-hour clubs. We have mega-double glazing, so the sound is reduced to a pulsing hum.
“It’s like we’re in a ship,” says special k, just before he falls asleep.
“Like the waves crashing against the hull?”
“Or like the creaking of wood.”
I imagine it for a second, and he’s right. The sound has exactly that quality of the ocean that makes you feel insignificant, like you can’t even guess at its depths, like you’re pitting yourself against your own mortal coil by venturing into it.
(I was carried out to sea when I was ten – these feelings about the ocean may be melodramatic, but were dearly-bought all the same.)