Who watches the Watchmen?
It is eleven oh one p.m. I am composing this in my head and cannot sleep. Beside me, Wendy is blissfully oblivious, sleeping deeply as is her gift. The new lights above my head are dimmed to almost nothingness. It is wonderful. Serene. Wendy thinks of all the right details. It is nine a.m. the previous morning. Wendy is reading on her iPhone next to me and I know I should get up. I have a lot to do in the next few hours. I slumber as long as my body lets me then take a cold shower and start work. Seven hours from now I will be asleep on a plane in a haze and Wendy will be softly crying in the seat next to me. I will be unaware of this fact until she tells me four hours later. It is eleven oh seven Middlebury time. I have been awake for twenty-two hours. I get up and can’t find my glasses but must compose this note. Wait. I have a spare pair in my computer bag. It is ten-thirty a.m. I have put away the dishes, closed and shuttered all the windows, taken the trash downstairs, weighed the