It is early in the morning – early enough to consider it the middle of the night. I wake up for reasons unknown. Then I realize that the fan has been moved so that the air is not sweeping over me. The recent high temperatures in the Seattle area have challenged those of us without central air conditioning. Portable fans are a saving grace.
I roll out of bed, creating a mental checklist to ask my husband why he would move the fan in the early hours. I harbor no ill will towards my partner – unless it is nighttime, in which case my sleep-deprived brain cultivates resentments. I decide that a guest bedroom is my only hope for somnolence, even though our extra bedrooms do not have fans. But to my midnight mind, it makes perfect sense.
As I open the bedroom door, I smell a strong, citrusy scent, as though I am bathing in a bath full of oranges. Instead of breathing deeply and pleasurably, I conclude that the odor is a natural gas leak and that our lives are in danger.
I set aside my peevish attitude toward my husband and awaken him. He good naturedly climbs out of bed and follows me to the kitchen. With prodding, he admits that the air in the house smells of citrus. To mollify me, he gestures toward the open kitchen window and suggests that the smell is coming from outside. Though I am only semi-conscious, I snap that we do not live in an orchard, and there are no fruit trees in the yard.
We stagger through the house like middled-aged zombies, our stances wide to compensate for our lack of balance. I open the door to the gas oven, certain that it has been left on without an ignited flame. Boomer the dog is helpfully shadowing us, hoping that our dead-of-night escapade will end with a fumbled, late-night snack. Bailey remains in her dog bed, her deep, resigned sighs signaling that her owners are pursuing an ill-conceived venture that does not require her allegiance. Plus, she needs her beauty sleep.
Then it occurs to me that Don may have left his gas-powered car running in the garage. I send him on a mission to turn it off. With practiced obedience nurtured over more than three decades of marriage, he stumbles off to the garage. Lassitude notwithstanding, his sense of humor is intact. He reports that the car’s engine is in fact running, do I want him to turn it off? I am not amused.
I glance out the window near the front door, and I catch a glimpse of a flashing red light. I triumphantly call out that there is a leak in the gas line outside and that the utility company is repairing it. I rush outdoors in my bare feet to depose the workers and determine whether we should vacate our house – only to find out that no one is there; the red light was the turn signal of a passing car.
My husband hovers nearby, silently seeking permission to return to bed. I reluctantly follow him back to the primary suite. As I crawl in beside him, I murmur that the odor means something awful, that it is likely we are going to die in our sleep. He rolls over, the depth of his breaths signaling a quick return to slumber. He murmurs that gas leaks smell of rotten eggs, not citrus.
What the heck? If he had told me that earlier, I could have spared myself my nighttime wanderings. His breathing slows and deepens. He is sound asleep within seconds. I add “ability to fall asleep” to my list of matrimonial disgruntlements – none of which I will remember when I wake up in the morning.