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Alexandra Seiler

It’s past three in the morning, and the kitchen lights are
still on. It’s the first thing I realize when I wake up from my
latest nightmare—this one involving a tree suspended in
midair, several rather unfriendly sharks, and the inexplicable
(but terrifying) prospect of attempting to write my
dissertation entirely in French. I roll over and glance at the
clock. 3:42 a.m. And on the other side of the half-closed door,
the kitchen lights are glowing softly, so Elia must still be up.
Her bed is unoccupied, her desk light still on.

I untangle myself from my sheets, swing myself out of
bed, and drift to the doorway, leaning into the lit-up kitchen.
My roommate is sitting at the table, tapping her teal-painted
fingernails absently on the rim of a chipped yellow ceramic
mug, books open all around her. She looks like the eye of a
storm, a hurricane of knowledge whirling out from her center.

“Elia,” I say, “it’s the middle of the night, go to bed.”
She looks up at me. “At Appomattox,” she says, “Grant
wouldn’t let Lee give him his sword.”
“Seriously,” I say, “go to bed. It’s late.”
She blinks, like she’s coming out of a trance, and seems to
realize that I am actually there. “Oh, Jess. Sorry,” she says. “I
was in 1865. Did the light wake you?”
“No.” I shake my head. “Just another bad dream. Go on,
Appomattox can wait ‘til the sun’s up.”
“Sorry,” she says again, and doesn’t move. I shrug and
turn, back to the darkened room. She may not want to sleep,
but I would give almost anything for a few hours of
uninterrupted rest.

⁂

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