Superman sleeps uneasy, beer fumes from his suit creeping like a thief into his nose, particles of the odour sticking to the hair, so in the morning he will be able to smell beer wherever in his apartment he goes. His dreams are of ossified conversations come alive, words fighting each other for a place on the stage, to be seen and heard and hopefully remembered.
Lois, beside Superman, cannot sleep. She is worried he is developing a problem. Her fear is greater than his strength and she winces as he burps fitfully, hot breathe whistling through her hair. But he doesn’t awaken, even as she sobs into his cape. And tomorrow, as they both work together on an article, she might broach the subject in public. To do so in private might mean her end.