For the rest of the day, we barely spoke to each other, and if we did, the conversation seemed to find its way back to Saturday night. And no matter how hard he tried, I never revealed any more details to him. I decided it was one story better left untold, since it was an awful tale with a beginning and an end, and that part in the middle, of which I did not know.
Yet it was the unknown that caused those wretched nightmares, and every night I awoke with visions so terrible that I often wondered if my subconscious had conjured up the truth in my slumber. So, in the blackest hours of the night, during those unbearably long moments before dawn, I lay awake, restless and frightened, while the possibilities played in my head.
I produced a series of loud yawns, and he asked, “You tired?”
“No,” I lied. “Just bored.”
“We could go somewhere,” he suggested, lowering his paper.
“I don’t feel like it.” I offered another pathetic cough. “I’m too sick, remember?”
The conversation, with its uncomfortable lapses, had gone full circle again.
“But you’ll be there tomorrow night, right?” he asked.
“Yeah, I said I would.”
He offered a half smile and picked up the paper again. I extracted another ball of pink fluff, released it over the floor, and watched it float to the ground.