The night buzzed into her room like bees to a Beyhive. Her shoulders twisted and turned in spastic motions, weighing her down with the tension of midnight-drawn silence, the stillness of moonlight, and the radiation of astronomy. She could feel the tides rise and fall in tune with her breathing – up and down, in and out – as if her head was an infinite seashell, breaking waves and fading into a frenzy of amorous plankton – fidgeting nervously about with the frustrations of a proper insomniac.
Juliette writhed on her back. There was clearly no escaping the surmounting poppies of a sleepless poppy field. Drained from the exhaust of mercilessly dragging her brain about the covers, she shifted her position once again so that this time, she lay on her opposite side with one leg under her blanket and the other sticking out – a bit of an Arnold Palmer of sleep positions. And yet, the salty air that wafted into her beachfront bungalow neither calmed nor soothed her; she could only think on the impending doom that awaited her the next day.
Shifting listlessly as the moonlight shown a spotlight into her bedroom, Juliette could not help but reflect on the past weekend’s events. The ride to Tijuana had been a painful and restless one, and the violent sting in her shoulders had only served as a cruel reminder of all of the fights and arguments that had escalated just a bit too quickly.