Who put a lawnmower in my bed?!

Lying flat on my back in bed, I think, “I really should have gone to bed before him.”

Next to me Rizal is snoring a mile a minute, sounding for all the world like the lawnmower my parents used to drag around the garden.

It doesn’t matter how many times I poke him in the ribs or slap his arm. Neither does it matter in which direction he faces or whether he’s lying on his back or side. The incessant droning doesn’t stop.

I tear off, roll and stuff tissue paper in both my ears. It still sounds like I’ve got front row seats to a chainsaw log cutting contest. And so I pass the night in fitful slumber, waking up every hour or so, nudging, poking or slapping Rizal’s arm in the futile hopes that getting him to move or change his sleeping position would at least buy me five minutes of peaceful slumber.

No such chance. I’m destined to be lulled to sleep by the sounds of an 18-wheeler zooming down the highway.