On some nights, the good nights, his snoring is a soft, regular rhythm, almost (almost) comforting. A slightly nasal intake of breath followed by a gentle puffing exhale. But those are the good nights, and good nights are rare.
On bad nights, she wants to smother him in his sleep with his own pillow. (She is certain that she would be able to avoid jail time with an insanity plea.) On bad nights, the relaxed tissues of his tongue, soft palate, and airway vibrate like a goddamn subway train in the dark. Chugging, choking, snorting, snuffling, pitch rising rising rising until she can't take it anymore.
Sometimes she stares through the darkness and thinks at him really hard shutupshutupshutupshutup, and sometimes, miraculously, he inhales one last wheezing breath that peters out into the regulated breathing of snoreless slumber. (Either they share some sort of psychic connection or he subconsciously senses her body tense in the dark, preparing for violence, and his body reacts to protect itself.)
Sometimes she reaches across the pillows and plugs his nose until he gasps and mumbles something unintelligible at her and changes position. Sometimes she puts a hand on his face. Sometimes she shoves him. Sometimes, as a last resort, after lying in the dark for what seems like (and sometimes are) hours, she resigns herself to the guest room in the basement, where she can still distantly hear him rattling through the floorboards.
He takes great pleasure in waking her on those rare occasions (too much wine, a cold) when she becomes the snorer. You're snoring, he says happily, nudging her awake. Oh, pardon me. My sincerest apologies for the briefest of interruptions to your otherwise restful nights, she replies, completely insincerely.
Nasal strips were ineffective. They spent forty bucks on a snore guard that he refuses to wear because it's uncomfortable. (You won't be uncomfortable in death, she thinks.) She googles how to stop snoring and comes across medieval torture devices, snake oil, surgery. The only reliable cure appears to be murder. (They have investments. The house is paid for. She can live frugally. She'd be okay.)
She loves him, but, lying sleepless for the umpteenth night in a row as he rasps and rattles wetly beside her, she understands the darkness of the human heart. The snorer! The snorer!
