Flesh and Fabric
D.V. Dorough
My roommate is worried about me. She says I have changed. I reflect on this in the embrace of my bed. The blankets enshroud my body and protect my soul. Encased in soft fabric, my world has shrunk to the space between my beating heart and the silk linens. I do not understand my friend’s words. I have not missed a rent payment. The dishes are still clean. So what if I am sleeping more? So what if we no longer enjoy our tv shows together?
Our weekly watch party was a luxury. Being punctual to work every morning is mandatory. My bed acknowledges this with its multicolored pastel folds of plush hugs waiting for me. The beckoning multitude of blankets wraps me in their hold. The heavy top quilt shields me from the cacophony of external noises. In this womb of threads and fiber, I am an embryo developing energy for my new beginning tomorrow. Each future morning requires a little more time.
Besides, our weekly tv shows no longer mean anything. The family dramas do not prepare me for each day’s drudgery. In cinematic stories, new beginnings are novel technicolor landscapes and sparkling adventures. In real life, the color palette is muted. Anything that sparks excitement invokes the wrath of my boss’s superior. After applying endlessly to job openings, I realized I must harden my perseverance. No one else is hiring. The job market is perpetually in tatters. While my fragile feelings are being bruised, others are being evicted. Trading a toxic work environment for a paycheck is not the worst of circumstances.
The sun cycles on between the days, and I cycle between the office and my bed. Working late means all emails are answered, and I can avoid my roommates' difficult questions. Every evening, I retreat to my oasis of non-existence enticing me back to my pillows. The mattress is a firm parental support. The faded fabric designs become familiar friends. The velvets are a lover’s comforting caress. They soak up my shameful tears. They hide my feelings from me. Here I do not have to be anything. Here I can escape into oblivion.
My cell phone vibrates, reminding me of its existence. I grasp for it between the lush synthetic furs. It is a message from my roommate. The phone’s artificial light casts a cavernous glimmer within my cloth capsule. It is a link for a weekend party, and a text enthusing about potential cute boys there. I stare for an eternity at the offer till the screen dims enticing me back to my void. I do not acknowledge the communication and provide no reply. Dating only accelerated me to my current state of being. I am in no rush to see where else it will take me.
I swipe away the chat, and the phone’s illumination centers my attention on the screen. The email inbox has a bright red notification. My muscles tense. My mind imagines another rejection email. I decide it is better to read it now than in the morning before work. Better to read it now, and then escape into the sweet amnesia of sleep. My finger taps the email icon, and hovers over where the communication’s exit button will pop-up. All I need to read is the message’s first sentence to know. All I need to see is the “Thank you for your interest, but…”
The caustic white light sears my sensitive pupils forcing them to focus on the defined black text. My retinas reflexively dampen in the corners. However, I hold back my finger from the quick exit tap. The email’s first word is unexpected. I exhale a humid breath between the bed sheets.
“Congratulations!” I read with blunted affect. The sentence’s surprise opening has wiped away my anticipated negative emotions. The message explains how I have been accepted for a position I interviewed for months ago. A coveted fellowship on the other side of the world in a country novel to me. When I got the interview, I could not even remember applying. My velvet cocoon is awash with a colorful rainbow of light from the fellowship’s website: glittering pixels of real people accomplishing compassionate endeavors amid warm inviting landscapes. My body uncoils allowing the soft sensation of the fabrics to brush against my skin again.
Exiting the message and darkening my phone’s screen, I return to my cozy void. In my pseudo night, my consciousness is safe to explore the jungle of its emotions. I find a sprout of hope pushing up through the overgrown bleakness. Opening my chats, I construct a message to my roommate. Referring to our current dearth of shows for our watch nights, I ask her if she knows about any films from this foreign country. My roommate suggests a movie with an actor that I know she fancies, and asks me if I want to watch it tomorrow with her. An innocent invitation, but another decision requiring mental momentum that I can barely sustain.
I inhale and sigh. The subtle odor of moth-eaten threads wafts under my nose. I have no recollection of when my sheets last smelled fresh. I have asked too much for too long of my companions both flesh and fabric. It is time for a real change. A new beginning of my own choosing. This time I type a meaningful reply to my friend’s invitation.
“It’s a date!” This is the first exclamation point I have used in months. My roommate’s typing bubble pops up and then disappears. In its place, a smiling emoji illuminates my linen cave with an amber glow. I wonder if I may have made things awkward. I quickly follow up with another message to drain the tension, “besides, it’s past time I washed my sheets, and I need your keen eyes to proofread an acceptance email.”
D. V. Dorough
D. V. Dorough is an American creative who dabbles in short stories, flash fictions, and mixed-media visuals. She publishes under the pen name of her grandmother who first introduced her to the joy of storytelling. When she is not crafting, she faithfully serves her dark feline overlords, Shadow and Madam Granny-Cakes, keeper of toy mice and protector of the sun beam.