I might sleep better if I wash it, my pillow, it smells of dirty hair. Downey will likely lull me to sleep. Tomorrow though.

I check the clock and it's two thirty-six. I've been in bed for two and half hours. Sleep mode on the radio has already turned-off. I could reset it, listen to pop music on volume number three. But nah.

I can't sleep. George can't sleep.

He splashes the water in his bowl trying to get my attention, but I'm not going to switch the light on. Not this time. He knows I usually do, but not this time.

He continues to splash, clapping water and clapping his fins against the glass to keep me awake. If I don't switch the light on, he won't feel as though he triumphed; he won't stop clapping. He won't let me sleep. But my betta fish has to learn. George has to stop clapping water.


***


In the morning I notice. George drowned while I was sleeping.

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