Consider this story disclaimed.
She'd always thought that people were supposed to look younger when they slept.
Juliet knew it was trite, and nothing at all that a female detective on the rise within the Santa Barbara police department ought to dwell on of a morning. It was those dreadful romance novels, those so-called dime-store paperbacks that she'd inhaled as a teenager, though there had never been any item there—at least in her memory—that could be purchased for a dime. But she had happily handed over her babysitting money, her tips and her hard-earned pay to escape to a world where the careworn, dashing hero with the flinty eyes shed his wild ways for the pretty, but by no means beautiful girl with a plucky spirit. In those stories, there was always a tender scene, after retreating chastely to separate bedrolls—or after tearing up the sheets with reckless abandon—in which the beguiling heroine mused upon the innocence and boyishness of her dangerous slumbering rogue.
She knew it was trite, but regardless, the scene had stuck with her, and she had grown to anticipate the moments following sex for the warmth and the wonder that it evoked. She had had more than a few men in her life, and several who had shared her bed. Naturally some stuck around for longer than others. Some were more handsome or better in bed or more sensitive to her feelings or what have you, but they all had this one thing in common—they all looked younger in sleep.
It was the vulnerability, she supposed, the utter bonelessness of slumber that made even the most firm-jawed, pragmatic face look slack and easy. Perhaps it was that sleep erased the telltale lines around the eyes and smoothed the furrows in the brow that were donned each morning somewhere between tooth-brushing and shoe-tying. Maybe it was the way the moonlight always seemed to soften rough edges and hide minute flaws, transforming angles and edges into smooth planes and gentle slopes; shadow and substance melded together in a land where impression rules supreme.
She had often lain awake at night, her mind racing with the cares of the day even while her body hummed pleasantly after shared intimacy with an engaging companion. She had never been one to quickly fall asleep, even after passion's fire left her limp and listless. So she would wait, encircled by a masculine arm, pressed to a lean side, cradled against a broad chest, until her lover tired and slept. For several moments she would lie utterly still, counting heartbeats, measuring breaths, before slowly drawing away and out of her lover's arms.
There, in the half-light creeping in from beneath hastily drawn draperies, she would lean back and casually explore the sleep-softened lines of her lover's face. She would tilt her head a bit, prop herself up with a forearm, striving to see and to know, to read each blemish and imperfection like a case file, to gather evidence, to consider, to judge.
He looks so young, she invariably thought, so very young and easy in sleep. This is what he looked like years ago. This is the man, stripped of the anxieties and stresses of life. This was him. This was his past. And with acknowledgement came the questions. Who was he when he wore this innocent face? How has he become the man he is?
The questions were, to her, a completely rational exercise. Her grandfather, full of useful wisdom as well as those snappy proverbs and adages endemic to his generation, had been known to say that, to get where you're going, you have to know where you've been—and that went double for any passengers picked up along the way. So she squinted and she studied and she read the past as a roadmap to the future.
It did not escape her notice that, with Shawn, she never wondered.
It wasn't because so much of his life was known to her—through Gus, through Henry, sometimes even through Shawn himself, though it was always difficult to tell where truth ended and pain-shrouding humour began. It wasn't even because she loved him too much—or not enough—to speculate as to the whys and the hows and the heretofores.
It was his face in the moonlight as he slept sprawled across the sheets, naked and exhausted.
Shawn was the only man she'd ever known whose face was never really softened by the hands of sleep. He looked older—no. No, that wasn't right. He didn't look older, at least, not in the physical sense. There were no stark hollows or fine lines brought out in relief by the fading light. He looked almost as he ever did in daylight, though without the boyish grin or the adolescent smirk. No, in sleep he looked more mature, more serious, more dependable—though she scoffed at applying any of those labels to the shit-eating grin of his hyperactive waking self.
For several nights towards the beginning of their burgeoning relationship, while intimacy was still new and shocking and wonderful and puzzling all at once, she had lain awake, holding onto one of his smooth, gentle hands even while she tenderly extracted herself from his grasp (Shawn was, as expected, a cuddler). She gazed upon his sweet, handsome face and tried to conjure some measure of the curiosity she had always experienced while beholding her slumbering lover.
The desire to see and to know was still there. She still wanted to peek into his soul, but more, she wanted him to bare it. She still wanted to catch a glimpse of his thoughts, but more, she wanted him to share them, freely and honestly. She no longer wished to read each blemish like a case file, to gather evidence, to consider, to judge. She wanted to experience each new line and each new scar, to be there to laugh at them, to cry over them, to dote and fuss and kiss them all, each and every one.
No, Shawn, unique as always, did not look younger when he slept. She accepted this observation with unexpected equanimity.
Of course she had never stayed with the other men before him, the men whose youthful slumber compelled her to always look to the past. When she looked at Shawn in the dark hours just before dawn, she saw her future.
A/N: Hello everyone. After an extremely long hiatus, I'm finally bestirred myself to write a short little piece of psychological cotton candy. Not sure how out of touch I am, but it's been nice to escape the demands of work and do something frivolous. I might be a little rusty, but it's been a short, sweet ride.
As always, I'd love to hear your thoughts. Thanks for reading,
l'ilmissnitpick