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Description
"I wanted you to believe in the starch and the harsh linen and the fresh, crisp white sheets" I say softly, my eyes seeking yours pleadingly for a moment.

"I wanted us to slide into those sheets without pulling them loose, so that we would lay pressed tightly against the mattress, grounded firmly in one place with no danger of slipping away anywhere."

I press on, urgently, "I wanted us to be that clean- whiter than fresh bleach." Across the table from me, your eyes glitter black and tired. Your expression does not change.

Suddenly my words fall hushed, distant. "I wanted you to fall into a dream, a revery where I was hanging those simple sheets on a clothing line, singing softly, painting the air with waves of soul that would spill across those sheets like colors."

That's what I was thinking about when you handed me those stark-white brittle sheets and said, what's gotten into you? You stared at me and said, darling, they're only for one night. Just one night. Your eyes followed my fingers as they ran across the stiff fabric. Then we'll be out of here, you said, thinking you were comforting me.

That night I slid into the tight-tucked sheets and waited while you brushed your teeth. You came out of the bathroom, the light hugging the back of your blue-and-grey flannel pajamas, your mouth full of toothpaste, and you laughed.

"What are you doing all squashed in like that?" you asked me, "you'll be flat by morning." You disappeared, ducking back into the soft rectangular light of the bathroom to rinse your teeth, and then in the darkness I could hear you breathing, closer and closer. "And we wouldn't want that, would we?" you whispered, your breath curling around my ear, as you crawled close and ripped back the sheets that held me in, your hands tracing the curves of my body, grabbing hold of my thighs and lifting me laughingly up to devour me there in the dark.

The morning was still grey-blue in anticipation of the sunrise when I got up, extracted myself from the tangled sheets, gathered my wrinkled clothes and left, casting one last look over your sleeping form. I looked at your big hands, the rise and fall of your wide chest, and as I watched, you twitched, groaned, shifted lazily, one bare foot hanging off the edge of the mattress. "Goodbye", I whispered, and the screen door clicked.

Somewhere along the highway, in a little run-down café in Santa Barbara, your dirty old grey Chevy pulled up and you walked in and sat across from me without saying anything. You looked at me, your face thinned out and greyed, your dark eyes narrow, exhausted but expectant. You were waiting for me me to say something, but I couldn't think of one word to give that worn-out face.

Finally, you spoke. You said, Nancy, what in hell happened? What in God's name did I do wrong? I am crazy, you said, running off like that in the middle of a good love. Your face crumpled suddenly, and your voice shuddered as you struggled for control. "Just... why did you do leave? I don't understand." Calmly, meeting your gaze, I told you,

"I left because of the sheets."

That's when you lost it.

"Goddamnit Nancy!! You would leave a man because for one night he has you sleep on some hard white sheets? What will it be for the next man, that he deigns to let you drink water that has not been softened first? You're crazy as a chicken with its head cut off! How does a woman even get to be like you!" Your outburst collapses like a soufflé pulled out of the oven too early, and you began to mutter, "boy, do I know how to pick 'em. Damn it Dean, you sure know how to pick em. Craziest woman this side of the equator and you go and fall in love with her." You drop your elbows onto the greasy table and your head in your wide, calloused palms.

"Watch out," I breathe. "Your elbows will get greasy. I think the waitress forgot to wash this table." I take a sip of coffee. It is missing just a touch of sugar, but that quintessential touch which makes the difference between the bite of bitterness and an easy, smooth sweetness.

"Hold on...

"I've got to get more sugar for this coffee."

Description
"I wanted you to believe in the starch and the harsh linen and the fresh, crisp white sheets" I say softly, my eyes seeking yours pleadingly for a moment.

"I wanted us to slide into those sheets without pulling them loose, so that we would lay pressed tightly against the mattress, grounded firmly in one place with no danger of slipping away anywhere."

I press on, urgently, "I wanted us to be that clean- whiter than fresh bleach." Across the table from me, your eyes glitter black and tired. Your expression does not change.

Suddenly my words fall hushed, distant. "I wanted you to fall into a dream, a revery where I was hanging those simple sheets on a clothing line, singing softly, painting the air with waves of soul that would spill across those sheets like colors."

That's what I was thinking about when you handed me those stark-white brittle sheets and said, what's gotten into you? You stared at me and said, darling, they're only for one night. Just one night. Your eyes followed my fingers as they ran across the stiff fabric. Then we'll be out of here, you said, thinking you were comforting me.

That night I slid into the tight-tucked sheets and waited while you brushed your teeth. You came out of the bathroom, the light hugging the back of your blue-and-grey flannel pajamas, your mouth full of toothpaste, and you laughed.

"What are you doing all squashed in like that?" you asked me, "you'll be flat by morning." You disappeared, ducking back into the soft rectangular light of the bathroom to rinse your teeth, and then in the darkness I could hear you breathing, closer and closer. "And we wouldn't want that, would we?" you whispered, your breath curling around my ear, as you crawled close and ripped back the sheets that held me in, your hands tracing the curves of my body, grabbing hold of my thighs and lifting me laughingly up to devour me there in the dark.

The morning was still grey-blue in anticipation of the sunrise when I got up, extracted myself from the tangled sheets, gathered my wrinkled clothes and left, casting one last look over your sleeping form. I looked at your big hands, the rise and fall of your wide chest, and as I watched, you twitched, groaned, shifted lazily, one bare foot hanging off the edge of the mattress. "Goodbye", I whispered, and the screen door clicked.

Somewhere along the highway, in a little run-down café in Santa Barbara, your dirty old grey Chevy pulled up and you walked in and sat across from me without saying anything. You looked at me, your face thinned out and greyed, your dark eyes narrow, exhausted but expectant. You were waiting for me me to say something, but I couldn't think of one word to give that worn-out face.

Finally, you spoke. You said, Nancy, what in hell happened? What in God's name did I do wrong? I am crazy, you said, running off like that in the middle of a good love. Your face crumpled suddenly, and your voice shuddered as you struggled for control. "Just... why did you do leave? I don't understand." Calmly, meeting your gaze, I told you,

"I left because of the sheets."

That's when you lost it.

"Goddamnit Nancy!! You would leave a man because for one night he has you sleep on some hard white sheets? What will it be for the next man, that he deigns to let you drink water that has not been softened first? You're crazy as a chicken with its head cut off! How does a woman even get to be like you!" Your outburst collapses like a soufflé pulled out of the oven too early, and you began to mutter, "boy, do I know how to pick 'em. Damn it Dean, you sure know how to pick em. Craziest woman this side of the equator and you go and fall in love with her." You drop your elbows onto the greasy table and your head in your wide, calloused palms.

"Watch out," I breathe. "Your elbows will get greasy. I think the waitress forgot to wash this table." I take a sip of coffee. It is missing just a touch of sugar, but that quintessential touch which makes the difference between the bite of bitterness and an easy, smooth sweetness.

"Hold on...

"I've got to get more sugar for this coffee."