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The doctor informed me that I had sleep apnea but my oxygen-intake level was above 90%, which meant it was very minor. However, my "sleep efficiency"—the amount of time I actually slept during the test—was 55%, a decidedly poor number. Also, I was in Stage II sleep through most of the test (Stage IV is R.E.M., the proverbial "deep sleep" needed for rejuvenation). This, along with a host of other minor stats, confirmed what I already knew: I was a light—and lousy—sleeper. The good news was neither machine nor surgery would help much. The bad news was much like the limbo of a poor night's sleep. I didn’t have a problem significant enough to warrant anything more than an oral device to help with my snoring, an option my doctor glossed over before ushering me out of his office. Which left me precisely where I started, only more informed (and neurotic).

But my problem had been de-clawed, I realized. There was nothing medically wrong with me and that was a burden lifted, one that I hoped would increase the quality, if not the quantity, of my sleep. I worried about Zoe though. The lack of a definitive problem would make my reluctance to move in together just that. She'd already renewed her apartment lease for another year, but was clearly pained at having to do so. We'd agreed to move in together after her new lease was up, but we both knew it was a weak consolation.

When I called to relay my prognosis, however, I was reminded why I loved Zoe, why I was lucky she tolerated me. "I knew it," she exclaimed, when I gave her the news. "Not that it matters. I fall asleep before you anyway."