At around 11 o’clock, my husband slips my glasses off my face because I have fallen asleep in bed watching television. I have fallen into a black abyss where tides roll repeatedly onto deeply shelving beaches, racing towards ramshackle timber cafes. I run from one cafe to another to escape the wave, the one that’s always on the horizon. I slip into a black hole and a different scene, a watery bed of sea, thigh deep and I wade out for miles and miles, dodging sharks fins and exotic tanned men on lilos sipping cocktails. I sail into a lagoon with water tumbling over a cliff face, refreshing the plunging indigo depths with billions of air bubbles. A yacht drifts by and on it are small children, too young to be in the water. There are parrots and it is desperately hot. Everyone’s wearing white. There’s a hotel up above with arches and bougainvillea trailing down its whitewashed walls. A dirt track leads away from its reception up a hill to a car hire office. I’ve forgotten my licence. I need a car to get back to the airport so that I make the plane home to meet my husband. They only speak Greek. I get a bus to the airport and it follows the coastal road. The terminal is full of queuing people. I need a drink of water. I don’t remember the flight. I wonder if I made it this time around.
At around 7 o’clock, I slip my glasses on and go downstairs to feed the cats. I can see exactly where I’m going; my view of the world is framed by a pair of reddish brown boxes. It’s a lot easier when you’re awake, there’s less to deal with. It all looks smaller in the day.