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Sleeping Beauty

He sat with his head leaning against the glass. White earphone cords lead across his flannel shirt to his pocket. Eyes shut, he nodded slowly to the music as a contented sleeping smile swept across his face. He held a large leather-bound journal, liberally decorated with Easter-egg colored sticky notes. He was almost cuddling with it like he was under the covers. He smelled of sandalwood and coffee. He had missed a half-inch spot in that morning’s shave. I was feeling guilty at having him all to myself when his phone erupted in vibration and a Rachmaninoff Piano Concerto ring tone. “Hello…” he said softly. Nodding in agreement, he listened, then said confidently, ”Don’t make it complicated, who equals subject, whom equals object, who is he or she, whom is her or him.” “You’re welcome,” he said, hanging up and curling back up to sleep with his journal. My sleeping beauty was an English major.