Author’s Note: Though the title of this piece borrows from Sleeping with the Enemy (a personal favorite Julia Roberts thriller), narratively, I’ve decided to channel my second—possibly third—favorite Julia Roberts movie: Pretty Woman. Apologies to any Sleeping with the Enemy purists who may have expected a more suspenseful homage. However, I will not apologize for the abundance of Pretty Woman references that follow.
At the intersection of “Unholy Hour” and “Half-passed Regret,” my digital clock cast a red, siren-like allure, reminiscent of Vivian Ward eyeing Edward Lewis’ Lotus—seductive yet cunning, a temptress in the neon night.
Yet here, my Lotus was a Pixel Pro 8 turbocharged by unchecked impulses and a blatant disrespect for morning clarity.
“Hey, sugar…” the night’s toothy megawatt grin whispered seductively, “how ’bout we jump in bed?”
“Actually, I need to finish writing one thing, jot down some notes, and look up at least three more recipe videos I won’t ever actually make. Is that okay?”
“Sure, but it will cost you—fifty minutes of tossing and turning just before your alarm goes off in the morning.”
“That’s ridiculous!”
“Price just shot up to dozing off in the middle of your client meeting after lunch.”
“You can’t dock me sleep for wanting to be more productive.”
“I can do whatever I want, baby. I’m not the one scrolling for cat videos three hours before he has to drop his daughter off at school.”
Just like Edward Lewis—minus the millionaire swagger—I believed I could master this transaction.
Maybe lure Sleep into an opulent penthouse suite of slumber, just, you know, later.
On my terms.
Instead, Sleep handed me a proverbial fire escape ladder, as if daring me to climb towards my elusive rest.
The currency of sleep’s world isn’t cash; it’s pharmaceuticals and willpower. Stockpiles of trazodone? Check.
Self-discipline? Bankrupt.
Sleep, the Kit De Luca of tranquility—far more affable if only you’d give her due esteem. I postured as the Marlon Brando of sleeplessness, assuming my nocturnal exploits would make her long lovingly for me. Major miscalculation.
Sleep wasn’t buying what I was selling, much like Vivian required more than Edward’s affluence. I’d relegated her to an afterthought, not a necessity, often leaving her alone while I sought the company of tomorrow’s worries. Much like Edward learning to be a better person, I too had a lesson to learn—never try to barter with sleep.
It turns out, you can’t play hard to get with something you already can’t afford; it’s like trying to trick gravity into letting you float by jumping off a cliff and screaming, “I never loved you anywaaaaaay!”
Reconciliation seems far-fetched, but as regret’s twilight looms large, I’m compelled to renegotiate our relationship status. However, bargaining with Sleep is a fool’s errand; for she’s a slick negotiator, trading in the legal tender of sanity and under-eye circles. To win her over, you’ve got to play her game, and let’s be honest, even when you win, you lose—because you’re unconscious, blissfully unaware of your triumph.
But oh, what a beautiful defeat it is.
And so, as I lie awake contemplating my life choices, a thought crosses my mind: maybe it’s time to stop acting like the rebellious playboy and start being the “prince” Sleep has been waiting for.
AI EDITOR NOTES:
- “An Pixel Pro 8” was changed to “a Pixel Pro 8” to correct the article usage.
- No other egregious grammatical issues were found that seemed unintentional or outside of the creative voice.
The piece maintains its vivid, metaphor-rich tone, and any adjustments were minor to retain your distinctive style【10†source】.