Sandwiched between white flannel snowflake sheets, nestled underneath a fluffy white down comforter covered in a white duvet, my head inches from white curtains — this is where I decided to have some dark chocolate at 2 in the morning.
I grabbed it off the windowsill behind me and broke a little piece off — which is to say a chunk the entire width of the bar — somehow flinging a large chunk of it into the bed unbeknownst to me. I then went to sleep on top of that square, like a soldier throwing herself on a grenade. Predictably, the explosion of chocolate underneath me was horrific.
I awoke two hours later, because if you eat chocolate in bed, you don’t sleep well. I got up for a glass of water, and as I stretched the glass underneath the tap, I noticed a shiny, dark streak running down the inside of my right arm, stretching around the curve to my elbow, the hand now tracing the line also covered in dark streaks. “OHMYGODIAMDYING!” I hissed.
I ran to the bathroom and flipped on the light. My white T-shirt was covered in wet chocolate smears around the armpit, the belly and the right breast. I flipped around, and the back side was worse. I looked like DiCaprio’s double in “The Revenant.”
“Oxiclean ain’t gonna get this out,” I told the brown dog who sleeps in the bathtub.
Peeling the shirt off, I tried rinsing chunks of chocolate out of it before I realized where this had happened and raced back to the all-white bedroom.
The sheets had dark swirls that turned into claw marks, and there was a whole chunk of chocolate, folded upon itself, warm and bendy and ready to cover more ground, lying just to the right of where I’d been sleeping. I briefly considered eating it, because if you haven’t figured this out yet, I am a shameful example of an adult human.
While this is going on, the white dog who sleeps in the white bed with me finally woke up and started sniffing around, so I shooed him out of bed onto the floor and started peeling the sticky sheets off the bed.
How the white duvet escaped, I will never understand. Every night since the incident, I have wondered if I will wake to more damage — if perhaps a piece lies in wait, chilled solid by the night air, waiting for the moment I touch it and melt it into full power.
Massive amounts of stain stick and two washes later, the white flannel snowflake sheets are now frozen in the trash can outside.
And because I stayed up for hours trying to save the sheets and putting new bedclothes out, I was too tired to take a shower before going to bed. I simply hoped there wasn’t any chocolate in my hair. God helps those who help themselves, and so I woke the next day, reeking of chocolate (surprisingly not a nice smell) with no time for a shower — and fresh chocolate smears on the fresh flannel sheets.
“Maybe you shouldn’t eat chocolate in bed,” Manfriend suggested.
But maybe I ate peanut M&Ms in bed four nights later anyway.
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