I used to try to talk to my boyfriend before bed. “Pillow talk” is what, I believe, this specific conversational period is termed by romantics. It’s the time when, after a hard day’s work or play, you are supposed to tell your troubles to, or perhaps share a philosophical pondering with, the soul mate who lounges beside you. Then, after you’ve each mended the others troubles with a little wisdom and tenderness, you fall into a blissful sleep with your sweetie.
I used to try this, but it was sort of hard because my boyfriend was usually busy reading the New Yorker or Esquire and not paying any attention to me. “Baby doll,” I’d say, scooting in close and wrapping my arms around him to make sure he knew that I was there and cared about him. “Do you know what a brilliant person I think you are?” He’d flip to the next spread of Jessica Biel and pause, I assumed, thoughtfully, and then say, “I love you too. Can you move your hand? It’s in my way.”
Once or twice, I tried getting into a fight over this, raising my voice, and telling him that he was being disrespectful and not paying enough attention to me. “Most men would love to have me in bed with them at night,” I’d say. “They’d love to have an actual woman here instead of looking at stupid pictures in their stupid magazines.” Of course, whenever I’d try this, he would inevitably have chosen New Yorker for his reading material that evening, and the pictures would be of things like ranchers in Wyoming or Ralph Nader. “I do think I’m lucky,” he’d say, perplexed. “Why else would I be lying here with you?”
“But I want to spend some quality time talking to you,” I’d say.
“We’ve spent all day together,” he’d answer. “What else do you want to talk about?”
The problem was that he was right. I didn’t have anything left to really say to him, but there was something sacred about those last few minutes before sleep. I didn’t mind reading in bed; I enjoyed it myself. I just wanted a little closure to our day, some small period that was uniquely ours.
