I wake to the wrong sleep paralysis demon on my chest.
Mine, Gladys, looks like a microwaved boghag and talks like a 1950s greaser. This guy has a burnt-batch-of-caramel-popcorn aesthetic.
A second weight settles on me. I wheeze, squinting through my sleep mask’s gap.
“Scram,” Gladys says. “This is my roost.”
The other gasps. “You exquisitely grotesque creature.”
“Stop tryna sweet-talk me.”
“Truly! I’ve never seen a dread queen so garish.”
Gladys blushes. “I think I like you, sodapop.”
All night, I’m frozen, annoyed, as they flirt and kiss.
In the morning, I call my doctor for some f**king Ambien.
