It was 12:30 AM.

For 90 minutes we had feigned sleep, but it had not come. Then, out of the stillness, "Ehgh....ehgh....ehgh...ehgh...ehghckh!" It is the sound that every cat owner knows well. I jackknifed up and pushed the tangled hair from my face. Miles was sitting up as well.

"Are you ok?" he asked. He seemed unaware that a furry friend was somewhere getting sick, but perfectly curious of my odd behavior. He hit the lights and grabbed his laptop. "I just can't sleep," he continued when I did not respond. "I'm going to read some websites and then come back to bed, ok?" Had I only imagined the strains of impending hairball? Dare I say anything?

I bit the bullet. "Didn't you hear that?" His expression was blank...classic Miles. "I think a cat just got sick." He hadn't heard a thing, but dutifully checked every corner and crevice with me. We came up empty...there wasn't a parcel of puke to be found! Miles patted my head and nudged me toward the bed.

I pulled the covers to my chin and brooded. Had I been asleep? Is this what my life has come to, this spending of my dreams on feline vomit? Is it natural that I should reach the pinnacle of excitement at 23? I bet it's all downhill from here.

Oh, joy.