There’s a certain way that you lay the sheets and quilts — perhaps more generously to one side — that leaves part of the bed quite cold. One may be sleeping when their foot wanders over, and a hallow coolness wraps around their ankle and forces its way between each toe. It exists a frigid reminder that this bed owner is by themselves. By day, the pillows are placed upright in such an order it could appear to strangers that two people would be later slumping beneath the covers. After all, who could possibly require all of those pillows if not two people? But I know this is a lie.
I know at the back of this absurd infantry of pillows, all standing in attention, is one that spans the width of the bed, and when everything is turned down, it’ll sit a lump beneath the sheets, separating me from the polar side. You never knew I had a body pillow, did you? Not that you would care. Because that day you couldn’t have possibly cared, not when you laced your fingers together at the knuckle and explained how we didn’t do that, how we didn’t fit so nicely. I just sat there sinking into the hand-me-down mattress as assuredly as the lump in my throat. I looked away from you and stared at the other side of the bed. It was there you laid all night, where I comforted you when you awoke from a dream that bothered you, a nightmare you wouldn’t tell me about.
“He really loved you and I see how you two are now. I don’t want us to end up like that,” you said. “Plus, we’re going to graduate in May, and we both know we don’t want to do long distance. We know where this is going.”
I don’t remember what I said, only that I asked, “Are you really that pessimistic?” And then something about doing what makes you happy.
As you tongued your way through excuses, my gaze shifted between creases of the bed’s jostled sheets. They were remnants from the night before. The comforter lay askew on the floor and the pillows had been tossed at opposite sides of the room. It was a bedmaker’s worst nightmare and, should I have dreamt it, I wouldn’t tell you about it either. Soon, the floor creaked in my old apartment with every step you took toward the front door. Hearing it shut, I sprang from bed and hovered at the peephole. You sat at the top of the stairwell, putting your shoes on with your back slumped over. I kept watching as you stood up and began to thud down the stairs, stopping midway to turn around and look back. I wondered the significance of a moment like that — of what were you expecting to see. Maybe you knew I was there. Maybe you regretted how the morning went. Or maybe you were just remorseful for what you left behind. Or maybe it was nothing.
The tears that you hold back become the saltiest when they finally burst. Mine erupted as I watched you continue the descent and walk onto Broadway Street. They erupted as I dragged my feet back to my room. Then again as I got back in bed. The closest I got to making the bed that day was pulling the comforter up from the floor and over my head. I clutched it, even rolling over occasionally to encompass the indentation you left behind. For a week, all I thought about was you, all I wrote about was that morning, and all I wanted to keep me company at night was your presence. And that was a week.
I’ve mastered the fine art of making this bed with all of its complicated green, feather-filled material, its bed skirt, and its expansive golden-knit quilt. So, you don’t have to worry. You don’t have to ask my friends how I’m doing because you’re too afraid to talk to me, and you don’t need to tell everyone that we’re over as if to instruct them to walk on eggshells. Really, I’ll be OK. I can forget the movies we saw if I bury the DVD cases. I can lose track of the two notes you ever left me; I already did. And I’m content to know it doesn’t smell like you in my room. I’m absolutely fine with that. The only time it would’ve gotten hard is at night. The only moments I could’ve felt my lungs collapse and my wandering feet turn shrill with ice is at night. Because you’ve been replaced. A body pillow is the professional bedmaker’s favorite tool. They help anchor the comforter down so it’s not kicked away, like you may a girlfriend. They’re the backbone, the shield. In fact, there’s almost no room for another person when a body pillow’s wedged in.
Pent-Up Aching Rivers 