One Hundred Sleepless Nights
Night Two ~ In Absent Hours
Pete wants to go home, to Chicago. It's too warm in San Fransisco, and he missed the chill of the Windy City. He was only supposed to be here for a few days on business, but days turned to weeks when an unexpected issue was found in his papers. And as much as he liked beaches, he'd really rather be at home, in Chicago, in a sweater right now.
The worst thing, Pete decides, is trying to sleep in a place like this. It was way too hot, even with the air conditioner on. Having insomnia made it worse.
Pete glances at the clock, 2:30 AM. He groans and covers his head with a pillow, as if to block out noise. But there wasn't any noise to block out. The room was practically silent, aside Pete's constant movement of the sheets and the occasional thrum of the air conditioner.
He couldn't take it anymore. He had to call.
He reached over and snatched his phone from the bedside table. He put in the number he knew by heart, and pressed the phone to his ear.
"Hello?" Patrick's voice came through the speaker of his cell, slightly deeper from being awakened.
"Patrick," Pete said softly. "Patrick, I can't sleep."
"I told you," Pete heard the rustle of sheets and then the click of the lamp. "You should've brought your medicine. This is why you're supposed to listen to me."
"I know," Pete whimpered helplessly. "I'm sorry."
"I know you are, Peter Panda. Just try and get some sleep okay?"
"Wait," Pete said quickly, not wanting Patrick to hang up. "Will you sing for me? Please?"
He heard Patrick sigh, but smiled when he heard the sound of an acoustic guitar being tuned. Patrick sang Lullabye, his voice low and sweet with the quiet thrum of the guitar. Pete wasn't sure when he stopped singing, but he was now half asleep with his phone cradled to his head.
"Go to sleep, Panda."
And he does.
The worst thing, Pete decides, is trying to sleep in a place like this. It was way too hot, even with the air conditioner on. Having insomnia made it worse.
Pete glances at the clock, 2:30 AM. He groans and covers his head with a pillow, as if to block out noise. But there wasn't any noise to block out. The room was practically silent, aside Pete's constant movement of the sheets and the occasional thrum of the air conditioner.
He couldn't take it anymore. He had to call.
He reached over and snatched his phone from the bedside table. He put in the number he knew by heart, and pressed the phone to his ear.
"Hello?" Patrick's voice came through the speaker of his cell, slightly deeper from being awakened.
"Patrick," Pete said softly. "Patrick, I can't sleep."
"I told you," Pete heard the rustle of sheets and then the click of the lamp. "You should've brought your medicine. This is why you're supposed to listen to me."
"I know," Pete whimpered helplessly. "I'm sorry."
"I know you are, Peter Panda. Just try and get some sleep okay?"
"Wait," Pete said quickly, not wanting Patrick to hang up. "Will you sing for me? Please?"
He heard Patrick sigh, but smiled when he heard the sound of an acoustic guitar being tuned. Patrick sang Lullabye, his voice low and sweet with the quiet thrum of the guitar. Pete wasn't sure when he stopped singing, but he was now half asleep with his phone cradled to his head.
"Go to sleep, Panda."
And he does.