One Bird's Choice by Iain Reid

Those dark circles under my eyes are genuine. I’ve been going through these dry spells lately when sleep becomes inexplicably scarce. One night I’ll sleep through until morning uninterrupted; then the next three or four nights will be spent lying on my side, the covers balled up beside me, while I stare vacantly at the wall. I just lie there frustrated, struggling to restrain my spinning thoughts, thinking and thinking about thinking, for hours.
    It likely has something to do with sitting around the farm most days at my desk, bent over my laptop, tapping my keyboard intermittently. Or maybe it’s because for the past several months I’ve been calling goodnight to my parents with the same childish inflection I had as a boy, before scurrying off to the same bed and crawling between the same blue sheets with yellow crescent moons I first used when I was eight. It’s probably a little of both.
    These restless nights leave me agitated, lethargic, melancholic. More so than a mind, a good night’s sleep is a terrible thing to waste. And that’s what’s most troubling: I’m trading away sleep in an unfair deal. I’m not getting drunk from expensive whisky and waking up in a stranger’s bed naked, with a lampshade on my head. No, I’m isolated in the countryside, sitting by the fire with Mom and Dad, finishing up the weekend crossword puzzle by trying to think of a three-letter word for sarcastic . That’s a tepid mug of chamomile tea I’m sipping, not tequila. It’s rarely that I’m not tucked into bed with a book by 10 p.m. Yet still, sleep ignores me.
    This morning, before I had my porridge, I woke from a particularly frustrating night. I dozed sporadically for maybe three hours, even though I spent nine curled up in bed. I watched the lenient October sun appear between my blinds sometime around six and slowly grow brighter until two thin shafts of yellow light were spotlighting the base of my bed. In the bathroom, splashing cold water on my face, I found a sticky note with wry! written in my mother’s hand stuck to the vanity mirror.
    You already know where my day went from there. The honey has caked onto my shirt now. I’m helping Mom fold a massive king-sized sheet for her bed. We do this without talking, and I’m thankful for the quiet. It doesn’t last long. Dad comes in from feeding the sheep and collecting the eggs.
    “You’re looking tired, bud,” he says. “Are you sleeping enough these days?”
    “Yes, I’m fine.”
    “How many hours are you getting?” he wonders as he sits to unlace his boots.
    “I’m not sure. Definitely more than four.”
    “Four? That’s not nearly enough. You need at least eight to ten. You should try going to bed earlier tonight.”
    “Much earlier,” echoes Mom.
    “It’s not really about when I go to bed; it’s that I’m not really sleeping while in bed.”
    “That’s probably because you’re too tired to sleep,” says Mom.
    “Definitely,” agrees Dad. “And some people need more sleep than others. Sounds like you’re one of them. What’s that on your shirt?” He’s moved over to the sink, where he’s washing the eggs and handing them to Mom to dry.
    “He spilled honey on himself again,” answers Mom, shaking her head disapprovingly.
    Dad holds up one of the wet brown eggs he’s just collected from the coop. “Well, I suppose honey on his shirt is better than egg on his face.”
    Mom tries to hold her serious face but bursts into a giggling fit, doubling over into Dad’s side like a domino. She bumps him just enough that he has to take a step back to keep his balance. The two are still laughing as I head upstairs.
    Mom and Dad are asleep. I’ve popped some corn and am lying in front of the TV. At the farm, television is still a novelty to me. We never had cable when I was growing up, and I didn’t own a TV in Toronto and rarely had the opportunity to watch one. It’s late, and although tired I’m still hoping to squeeze in another hour or