He had stretched across the couch. Some show played on the television. An armrest of the couch wreathed his head. His chin rested against his chest. A TV remote rested in his hand. Television images danced before his eyes.

Children played in the next room. Sounds of boys and toys clattered in his ears. His wife spoke to someone on the phone. She moved through the house, talking and walking. Beside the couch, a lamp shined brighter than the setting sun through the opened window blinds. 

Evening sun, like melting caramel, sticking briefly to the windows, sliding away, drooping like heavy eyelids, falling, closing …

He’s relaxed, stretched across the couch, the children’s voices and clatter of toys becoming thick, slow, low, foggy. Television images flicker on the screen between the snap of his eyelids, open and shut, open, shut. 

Pieces of conversation drift in and out of his ears. Did someone on television say that? Or was it the boys playing? Or his wife talking on the phone? The sun fading, bright and dark, the lamp bright then dark …

He awoke in darkness. He awoke in silence. No sun remained. Only a hint of street lamp shined through the closed window blinds. The lamp was off. Television off. A blanket had been stretched across his frame. No sounds of children. No television sounds. No sound of his wife walking and talking on the phone. Dark silence.

Waking, when his eyes first opened, he remembered none of these things, not at first. Television had not existed. The sun had never shined. Noises were the nighttime creaks and stretches of a house — the turning on of a timed air-conditioner is briefly some unrecognizable, primordial roar in his ears. 

The room was familiarly strange. The couch was not his bed. He had awakened somewhere, some when, some how, transported in some way from sometime to some place, but he couldn’t wrap his still sleepy head around the riddle, not at first. 

What day is it, what time is it, am I late for work, how did I get here, where is everybody, what happened to the daylight, why am I sleeping in all of my clothes?

Details of his life fill his head faster than it takes to read this sentence. He knows who he is, where he is. He remembers all of this without fully acknowledging it. He wonders where his family is, briefly, before realizing that it is night and they are asleep, but how did he get here, in the dark, stretched across the couch?

He must have fallen asleep. He did not recall falling asleep. He had not planned to doze off. The man wanted to spend a few moments stretched across the couch. He wanted a few minutes of relaxation before bouncing up to play with the children, or handling a couple of household chores, or watching TV with his wife, or doing all of these things. 

In the dark he has to think a moment about falling asleep before remembering the TV, the sun, the children playing, his wife on the phone, the sweet comfort of melting into the couch and stretching his legs, the warmth of his eyelids covering his eyes like a mother tucking in a baby.

Someone had likely attempted to wake him. The boys had probably tried to wake him to play. His wife likely tried waking him for bed. He hoped he hadn’t said something gruff in his sleep, but someone had covered him with a comforter before going to bed. 

Still, what time is it? His watch marked something after one in the morning. He’d been asleep for more than five hours. Five hours gone, passing in what seemed like less than a minute, and the whole world had changed, the entire house changed, and an evening with his family lost forever.

He stood, his eyes adjusted to the night, the comforter falling back to the couch. He walked to the children’s rooms to be certain they were there and safe. Each child slept. He quietly kissed each one good night. He walked to his room, where he found his wife safe and sound. He kissed her head good night. He walked to the kitchen for a glass of water.

He sipped his water. Through the kitchen window, he watched the motionless silent night glow in the yellow-tinged warmth and deep shadows of a street light. 

It is a lonely thing to wake from an unexpectedly long nap. It is strange to fall asleep when the sun still lingers and the children still play to wake when it is dark and the house silent. 

To do so is similar to being Rip Van Winkle waking to a different world, except this world is quiet, dark and alone. Time and space shift and everything is thrown off schedule. And the man is well rested and awake while his family sleeps sweetly in their beds.

Dean Poling is an editor with The Valdosta Daily Times.