Pillows & Possibilities

There’s a girl in his bed.

It’s not the first time, but she was the first girl. To be clear: she has been here before. He brought her in the beginning, when the weather was warmer and the small attic window looked out onto a sunlit street unobscured by garish leaves and the unmistakable chill of imminent seasons. This is the third time she has spent the night.

They sleep together. Not in the conventional sense, but in the truest and most innocent way possible. He marches up those creaky stairs at three and four in the morning, his familiar thumping gait followed by her soft, cautious footsteps. She never brings anything more than a small purse. It’s the kind of accessory that illustrates no expectations of a night out, but there are signs that she too is noticing the trend of sleepovers.

This morning, she reached into that purse for a face wipe and a piece of gum. It’s resourceful, really, and rather clever. Not enough effort to make it seem like she cares, but enough to be a decent human being. She woke before he did—she always does. She attempted for a short while to sleep again, but realized it was pointless.

This has happened before; she will wake early, eight or nine, and for the first split-second after her eyes open, not know where she is. There is a childlike wonder when she realizes. She will turn watchfully to the left, to face his back, rising and falling as he continues to slumber peacefully. Her heart rate is accelerated, and her eyes wide. Too alert to doze off again, she studies the sloping attic walls, the orderly piles of clothes he tucks away in its corners. She picks up her rings from the bedside table and studies them before putting them on, modeling her hand against the dull ceiling as if it is a new sight.

He stirs occasionally. Rather than turn away and pretend to sleep, she looks expectantly toward him. More than once, he turns over and briefly awakens, only for them to lock eyes and not speak a word. Not out loud, at least. Her eyes burn with questions, but she hasn’t asked any yet.

It is late afternoon when they wake today—though of course, she is awake before he is.

“Good morning, star shine,” she says airily.

“What time is it?” he asks foggily, retreating into the blankets.

“Four,” she replies.

“Holy shit,” he says, throwing the covers back. “We slept that long?”

“I think we needed to.”

They go quiet. The questions burn stronger in her eyes than ever before. Something was different about last night and this morning.

“Do you want to talk about it?” she asks.

He exhales unblinkingly. “Is there anything left to say after last night?”

“We were drunk,” she presses, “and you were so angry and argumentative. I couldn’t reason with you.”

“Yeah, well, the anger part is true. Do you even know what happened?”

“No…”

“Your friend told me to stop leading you on and using you.”

Her inquisitiveness is replaced instantly with shock. And then, alarmingly: she smiles. “He said that to you? Wow.”

He does not respond, but stews silently. After almost a minute, he asks her: “Are you uncomfortable with this?”

Perhaps the directness catches her off-guard, or perhaps it’s the candor with which he addresses their unusual recurring sleeping arrangement. Perhaps this is the question that has been burning in her but she never thought to answer it herself.

“No,” she says quickly. “Of course not. I know what this is. I know you don’t feel the same about me. I come here because it’s a place to sleep; I don’t have any…expectations.”

This seems to satisfy him. “Just because I don’t have romantic feelings doesn’t mean I don’t care about you,” he adds. “You know that, right?”

She smiles. “I do. You mentioned it last night.”

“Well I’m glad I said at least one good thing.”

The day begins slowly, a day that already bypasses the pressure of needing to be a real Day of productivity. He moves to his desk and opens his computer, as well as a jar of chocolate covered raisins that they share. She peruses her phone nonchalantly while hyperaware of his proximity and the constant possibility of conversation.

“Do you watch this show?” he asks after a short spell of silence. She nods vigorously. “Have you seen the new episode?” She shakes her head. Without another word he grabs the laptop and repositions himself in bed. She smiles broadly and props herself up on her stomach with a pillow. They pull the covers back up.

“Ugh, it’s so cheesy but I love it,” she says to him while the video loads. “I got completely addicted last year.”

“I’m not even embarrassed,” he says. “It’s a great show.”

They settle in, growing quiet as the episode begins. They don’t seem to be in any rush to leave the bed. Besides, they’ll be back soon enough.