Team Luker
By Nell Iris
2018
Jools is snoring again.
With a sigh, I prop myself on my elbow and look down on his dear face. His jaw is slack, his mouth hangs open, his right cheek is crisscrossed with pillow creases, and his longer-than-usual beard is messy. A deep inhale produces a loud noise and I can’t help smiling, remembering all the playful arguments on the topic.
“I do not snore, Ellery Luker,” he always says—indignant and stubbornly refusing to believe me, even though I’ve recorded him on my phone and played it for him—as though he’d know that better than me who’s slept next to him for almost twenty-five years.
In this moment, I don’t care, though. It’s not like I was sleeping anyway. I haven’t slept for days, just a fitful hour here or there.
His eyes move rapidly behind cl
