Ana Doesn't Sleep

Heat, a lot of heat and darkness. It's summer and I've arrived exhausted from a dive called Aranjuez, leaving behind a sand dune. I try to drop my clothes shakily in the garage. Shirt over the shoulder, belt, and jeans. It's so hard to get the jeans off... but there it is. I muster mental strength to leave one on. I go back to the jeans and feel the pocket. I take out the crumpled pack and blow it off while I sit on the kayak's keel to smoke. When I finish, I drink a good amount of water straight from the bottle and take a migraine pill I found in a fruit bowl along with some dice and candies of varying ages. I don't want to make noise or wake anyone, so the front room is a good option.

The vacation house is a hodgepodge with several rooms, thanks to the foresight of my grandfather's father, who bought this large plot for a pittance in the '40s, despite everyone calling him crazy. There are rooms for the uncle's children, for mom's side of the family, and one for occasional guests. That's where I'm going to settle in. How many are left? How many of that battalion that was here yesterday when I said goodbye came to spend the day?

I move forward. It's still dark. Just speckles filtering through the holes in the plastic blinds like timid lasers that will soon become rays, projecting an incomplete puzzle of the house's map. I keep moving and slide around, feeling for Hitchcockian creaky doorknobs. Nearby, I hear people snoring and Aspen-like music from an alarm clock radio playing in the background.

Once I find the doorway of my room, I start feeling with my toes for the edge of a miraculous double mattress I use for naps. I find it with relief and, squatting in slow motion, I let myself fall.