Brian and I married so young that people unconsciously use American jargon when they talk about us. Really. We've been accused of being “high school sweethearts” a few times. Once even “prom king and queen.” The girl had a straight face on her and all.

            Those phrases come from telly, of course, but I'm not sure why people use them so consistently with us. It could be Brian's all-American look: the obedient white teeth, the quarterback arms. Or maybe it's veiled condescension, implying our innocence, our Bible-belt weirdness.

            The one boyfriend I had before Brian was all talk. Brian, with his pointed actions and tactful omissions, was refreshing. That was when we first got together.

            This morning, he beamed at me over the Cheerios and told me we were going bed-shopping, like it was some massive favour. The one we have is only as old as our marriage, but Brian wants it replaced – for reasons so obvious he didn't have to say them out loud. He wanted me to smile back and to appreciate the blank-slate metaphor, to praise his willingness to start over. But I just said “okay” and poured my cereal.

***

This salesman is no out-of-work actor. Though he tries, bless him, he tries.

            “This solid oak bedframe is beautifully distressed,” he insists.

             He leads Brian and I round the draughty showroom, delivering his pitch in a maths-teacher monotone. He has to keep clearing his throat. We're the only customers.

            Brian guffaws. “In other words, it's banjaxed.” He rolls his eyes at me. He's convinced that all salesmen are cowboys.

            The salesman sees, as Brian intended him to, and his face falls. He's probably in his thirties, but looks about twelve, from the freckles to the haircut, which looks as though it's styled by Mammy using a comb and liberal amounts of spit.

            Brian walks over to a faintly rosy-looking bed-skeleton. For such a big bed it has dainty, slender legs. It looks built for furniture polish.

            “This, now. This is more our style.”

            The salesman falters. He searches for his spiel like a man searching his pockets, worried-looking, eyes flitting over the ground. Finds it. “Ah! The cherrywood ...”

            I'm not at all sure the shiny bed is our style. I don't want to have to worry about denting it, fingerprinting it.

            “What do you think, Em?” Brian's brown eyes have far too much hope in them. He really sees this as a way to solve our problems. I don't know when he started being like this. I blame those team-building exercises they make him do at the office.

            “It's lovely,” I say, “but is it a bit too  -”

            “What?”

            “Girly?”

            “I thought you'd like that. Being a girl.”

            “Don't mind what I'd like! I'm not fussy. Pick one you'd like.” This is the wrong thing to say.

            Brian sighs. He says to the salesman: “Right. What else have you got to show us?”

            But I can't take the half-arsed sales talk anymore, so I cut the man off. “Just have a look around yourself, B. I trust your instincts.”

            He smiles at me, and I'm glad that lie went over smoothly. I don't trust his instincts. I'm incredulous we're about to drop several hundred on something we don't need.

            Brian trails off, and the salesman visibly deflates – with relief or disappointment, I can't tell.

            “What's your name?” I ask.

            He looks confused, then glances down at his chest. “Oh. Must've forgot the tag.”

            “Is that the only way you can remember?”

            He grins crookedly, and it transforms his face. Brian's smile doesn't do that – the  symmetry can't be broken.

            “Guess what my name is,” he says.

            “Oh, come on.”

            “Seriously. Have a go.”

            “John,” I say.

            His mouth goes into an O of awe. “Jesus, that's fucking amazing.”

            I laugh aloud in a release of tension, and it echoes round the high-ceilinged warehouse. He ducks his head like he's trying to keep his smile under wraps.

            “Em!” Brian barks, and when I cast my head around I see he's still standing by the dainty cherrywood. “I just have a good feeling about this one.” Typical Brian. He really believes things and places have their own vibe, their own inner life. I can't believe that, though I'd love to. I don't think half the people I meet even have an inner life. I even wonder about myself, sometimes.

            I shrug. “It's as good as any other.” This too, is a lie. It's not as good as the one we already have. I love that bed – it's robust, it's springy, it has secret drawers and bonus foldy bits.

            “Are you sure?”

            I pat my handbag, and speak to the salesman rather than Brian. “I have the credit card. Let's go settle up.”

           “The machine's in the office,” he says, nodding towards the back of the store. We walk in that direction, passing Brian.

            “Right, I'm gonna go see what class of sofas they have in this place.”

            “Don't go too wild,” is what I say when I really want to say: Why? It's not like I had any indiscretions on the sofa.

            “You know,” says the salesman, “I get the feeling you're not too fond of that particular bed.”

“It wouldn't be my first choice.”

            He turns to me, his features alive. I seem to have inadvertently reignited his love for salesmanship. “Well, it's an investment. You both need to be happy with it. I have one other I could show you, right over here. It's a hardwearing beech frame with a veneer of -”

            “Thanks,” I say quickly, “but – well ...”

            “What?” Eager, shining eyes.

            “You're not very good at selling beds.” In fact, I agreed to the stupid bed just to shut the both of you up.

            This doesn't crush him like I expect. “I suppose my bed talents lie elsewhere, then.”

            “You dark horse,” I say, unable to keep from smiling.

            He sits on the bed he was trying to pitch to me, bouncing lightly on the balls of his feet to show its inviting springiness. His eyes don't leave mine. And maybe because I feel bad about being rude to him, or maybe to shake Brian and I out of our stiff rut, but mostly just for the hell of it – I climb on him, straddle him, kiss him. Like the movies. His arms fumble round me, and he kisses back, though he's making sounds against my mouth that sound more like protest than pleasure. I can smell the heavy plasticky scent of the wrapped mattress; the wrap sticks to my bare arms. The boy is limp underneath me, which makes me overcompensate: I twist my fingers through his hair, chew his bottom lip, grind my hips.

            And of course Brian sees. When I finally sit up a little, pushing my hair back on my head, he's standing a few metres away, looking almost bored. It seems as though he's waiting for me to tell him it's all a practical joke. I want to tell him it is, sorta.

            “Christ, Em,” he says. “You're crushing him.”

            I climb off the sales guy and sit on the edge of the bed; the salesman goes scurrying into the back office. I want Brian to yell at me so much. Tell me he hates me – break us, so we can put us back together.

            Maybe he won't say anything, as ever.

But he just slowly smiles, staring at me, as though he has the measure of me. And as I get to my feet and run, run all the way home, I know it's not him I'm running from – it's the knowledge he's grown and I haven't.

***

As I'm going to bed, Brian still isn't home. I don't understand my husband, but I can predict him. He'll come in drunk, not that I can blame him. He'll fall down beside me on the bed. We'll lie back to back, each an inverse of the other, like sulking siblings. In the morning I'll hand over the credit card and tell him to buy whatever bed he wants, and a couch if he wants it, too.

***

About Eimear Ryan

To launch the Sleep Club bedtime story collection, we invited talented Irish writer Eimear Ryan to write our first story.

Eimear is currently living and working in New York, but originally comes from Tipperary, Ireland. To date she has been published in the Stinging Fly and The Sunday Tribune. She blogs at eimearryan.wordpress.com. In 2009, she received the Hennessy XO Literary Award for First Fiction.

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