I hear the secrets that you keep . . .

I talk in my sleep. I always have. I don't know that I'm doing it at the time, of course; I'm just told about it the next day by friends and relatives who were subjected to my nonsensical ravings.

I also went through a phase, a couple of years ago, where I had night terrors. And those were no joke. I don't remember them, have no idea I did anything, but Curtis had to put up with my getting up and looking out the windows, telling him over and over that people were in the house, that people were coming to kill us; with my waking up and screaming; with his waking up to find me staring at him, wide-eyed and trembling, then hissing "I don't know who you are."

I don't seem to do that anymore, luckily for him. I'm sure it was starting to get to him.

Curtis has never been a talker in his sleep; when he's asleep, he's out. Once, a month or two ago, he fell so soundly asleep on the couch that I honestly thought he was dead.

But about two weeks ago, he talked in his sleep for what is probably the first time ever.

He'd fallen asleep on the couch, and I was still wide awake. And then . . .

Curtis: Are you ready to blow some smoke rings? [He said this as clearly as he'd say "Good afternoon, this is Curtis" on the phone to a co-worker. Not mumbly, not indistinct. Furthermore, he sounded excited.]

Sally: What? [I thought he'd woken up and was teasing me.]

Curtis: Are you ready to blow smoke rings? I am!

Sally: Do you know how?

Curtis: Yeah! [At this point, I got up and looked at him. He was out.]

Sally: How long have you done it?

Curtis: A long time!

Sally: Can you tell me how to do it?

He stopped talking then; presumably, he did not want to share his secret technique.