m review — short fiction — sheets
Sheets
by Gina Colantino
He sighed, one of those long sighs that expands the lungs and expels slowly through the nostrils.
She wondered exactly what type of sigh it was - contentment, boredom? With her face muffled in the pillow, she couldn't tell.
The pillowcase smelled slightly stale, musky, a little dirty. When was the last time she had changed them? Growing up, she changed the sheets every Sunday; chore day. Laundering the linens was her responsibility; she always had to pay careful attention to the final rinse cycle so the Spring Morning fabric softener could be added at just the right time. Towels, bathmats, and fitted sheets came out warm and sweet from the dryer, ironed, folded, and neatly stored away in closets. Once a week this happened.
She calculated that it had been at least a month since she had washed these sheets.
What a disappointment she must be to her mother.
Life was full of little disappointments.
He maneuvered her, turning her from her stomach to her back, flipping her like a little, pale pancake and interrupting her thoughts. She studied his face, the sprinkling of pockmarks on his cheeks, the scar above his upper lip, and the tiny hairs on his nose until she met his eyes. Her blue eyes clashed with his brown for a second before he lowered them to her breasts. She focused in on the ceiling. Around the overhead light, tiny glow-in-the-dark stickers twinkled faintly. Who put them there? She liked this about their apartment, the little scars reminding of renters past.
His breathing increased and she arched her back into his chest to see if it was heaving in that telltale way. It wasn't.
The bed squeaked.
They had bought the bed frame at an estate sale, their first purchase as a couple. A big brass bed. He had heckled over the price, talking the daughter of the deceased down from fifty-five to twenty dollars. She was still amazed by that. When they returned to what was then their new apartment, he played Bob Dylan's Nashville Skyline while they tore apart his existing futon frame. There had been something wickedly childish in the act, the selfish pleasure she took in destroying what was still usable, something that harbored the memories of past girlfriends. When the mattress and sheets (the same green sheets, although back then they were fresh out of the package and called Bamboo Morning) were added, he threw her on the bed and she squealed. In the background, Dylan crooned, "lay lady lay, lay upon my big brass bed." It was their haven, their own little pale green love nest. The unspoken symbol of their happy union.
But that was then.
He moved her thighs around his hips. They were such small hips. He was such a small man. She was such a small woman. They fit nicely together...physically.
She couldn't help but smirk at this last thought. How funny they were, the newly wedded, old-married couple in their tarnished brass bed. What had happened? Where had all those little things, private jokes, hello/goodbye kisses and spontaneous sex on the kitchen floor gone? Their sex was definitely not spontaneous. It was routine: a tension release for him, like masturbation, and another chore for her, like removing a clump of hair from the bathroom drain or laundering the sheets. They didn't even pretend anymore.
Her thighs began to ache and, giving a little grunt, she flipped to her side and he followed her lead. His breath was hot on her shoulder and for a moment, she remembered him, this stranger who used to lock eyes with her and smile, causing tiny waves of happiness to float down to her toes. The stranger that kissed the special spot on the back of her neck, just below her left ear. She missed him.
Maybe she could say something? She propped herself up on her elbow and turned her body towards his, so she could look at him again.
"Hey."
"Yeah," he said and slowed down.
"Uh, h-how are you?"
His brows knitted together, and he gave her a confused look.
"Fine."
His tone was flat.
"Oh. Ok."
Her heart dropped, leaving a painful tickle in her gut as she turned back around.
Hopeless.
The clock on the nightstand clicked from 5:45 to 5:46. How long had they been at it? Ten minutes? Twenty? She wanted to tell him to stop but didn't.
Resting her head on her arm, she stared at the bedroom wall and thought again of folding her parents' sheets when she was younger, sweet smelling sheets on their own big bed. She wondered if loveless sex became part of every relationship and remembered how one night, after one too many whiskeys and ten too many beers, her father lectured her on sex, a birds and bees talk, so to speak.
Men have needs. Someday, when you get married, don't you ever do to your husband what your mother does to me. Men have needs.
The conversation was forever burned into her brain.
At least if they divorced with explanations of "we were just really unhappy" he couldn't complain "we never had sex," or how his needs were never met. It was at least something.
He maneuvered her again to her back, a smooth transition that comes with practice. This time, they didn't bother to meet eyes. She concentrated on his narrow chest and the mole that sprouted curly hairs he trimmed, just under his shamrock tattoo on his right upper arm. He was only twenty-six but the colors on the tattoo were already beginning to fade, the black ink growing gray-blue and the lines smudgy. It made her wonder how the rest of him would age. Would he lose his hair or keep a full head of shiny salt n' pepper or gray? Would he grow a belly like her father, his mouth a little too indulgent with those amber bottles of beer? She imagined herself growing old as well, her hair a dyed brunette, crow's feet around her eyes, and ancient smile lines.
Her stomach growled a little, a little murmur in the background of the squeaking bed. Maybe she would make them dinner when he finished. It would be nice to make dinner, something homemade and comforting like garlic bread and spaghetti. Her mother used to make her special turkey meatball spaghetti every Sunday, a reward after chore day.
After all, how many times had she heard her father say hugging and kissing is great but cooking lasts, cooking lasts.
They used to make dinner together all the time. Neither of them being the best of cooks, they'd locate recipes online and try their amateur hands at the culinary arts. Sometimes, they were pretty successful, like with the lemon German pancakes they'd often make on the weekends. Other times, things turned out a little questionable, like that one shrimp and pasta dish with vinegar and about five pounds of butter - what was it called? She remember how they had both kept commenting on how it was "pretty good," as to not hurt each other's feelings. No one wants to believe that efforts are sometimes in vain.
The bed began to squeak again, faster and louder, hitting the spot on the wall, scraping up the paint.
As her head slid back and forth against the pillowcase, she mentally inventoried the fridge, trying to remember its contents. The only thing that came to mind was an empty case of Iron City and possibly a small container of half and half. Apparently she was lagging in the grocery shopping department as well.
Maybe this was all part of the problem. Maybe she was the problem. Maybe if she had her own chore day, if she still cleaned the floors, scrubbed the bathtub, washed the sink, purchased produce like a good little wife, things would be different.
He lowered his body into her chest, gave a few soft moans and pulled out. She quickly shimmied out from under him. It was her little dance, like running from her car to the apartment on a rainy day, trying to remain dry and unmarked by the droplets.
He got up and looked at her for a moment, lying naked on the Bamboo Morning sheets. He opened his mouth like he was about to say something, and closed it again. Giving her a tightlipped grin, he walked naked back to the living room. She heard the television click on to the nightly news and the glasses clink as he poured himself a whiskey.
As she reached for her crumpled pack of Parliament Lights on the nightstand, she heard the distinctive metallic snap of his Zippo. Postcoital cigarettes. They were both so cliche. She took a drag and exhaled, staring at the chipped polish on her toes. They used to smoke together after sex, bundled in blankets, engulfed in a cloud of blue-grey carbon monoxide. Happy.
But that was then.
It was now a little after six o'clock. She stamped out her cigarette in the bottom of an empty water glass. The heat made an amber smudge.
She thought again of dinner but dismissed the idea, opting to curl herself into the fetal position instead. She drew her chin to her knees, making herself a tight little impenetrable ball.
Gina Colantino of Portland, Oregon.
"Sheets" is an M Review 2006 Short Fiction Finalist.
Gina Colantino currently resides in Portland, Oregon and is a student at Marylhurst University.
