Sheets

W.S. Dixon

~
The woman lazily rolled over in the bed, the pale blue sheets gently draped over her as if
only masking her body visually, and not touching her at all. She opened her eyes briefly and
glanced about the room. Still in transit between sleep and wake, the woman’s head was cloudy
with remnants of dreams.
In the tiny, mildew-ridden bathroom several feet from the bed, stood a man. He was
bent over the sink, washcloth in hand, scrubbing his face. The man peeked out towards the bed
at the rustling woman.
“Look who finally woke up,” the man called in a joking manner.
“Oh, be quiet. It’s only seven-thirty.”
The man laughed mutedly, trying to keep his wet face from dripping on the floor.
“You expect me to be up already?” The woman asked.
“No, but I am. It’s a work day.”
A silence crept over the room, filling the air with a slightly uncomfortable feeling. The
man turned back to the sink, examining his cheeks in the mirror.
The fog of sleep surrounding the woman’s head was beginning to lift. She rolled onto
her back and surveyed the ceiling. Every inch of it was either cracked or strained brown. One
break in the plaster bothered her in particular. It was the only crack that ran completely from
one side of the ceiling to the other. However, the woman was frustrated by the fact that this
crack did not exactly bisect the two sides of the ceiling; it was slightly askew. She told herself to
not be bothered, and that the matter of an offset crack should be of little importance to her. The
woman laughed at herself, realizing the triviality of her waking thoughts, and was comforted
knowing that she would be away from the crack in a short amount of time.
“Whatcha doin’?” The man asked lightly. He reached for a towel and dried his face. He
turned, standing in the doorway of the bathroom. The woman perceived that something about
him seemed triumphant. And in a way, he was. She watched as he leaned casually on one side of
the doorway. The man was shirtless, only clothed by a pair of plaid boxers that hung around his
waist, just below his slightly flabby stomach.
For a few minute moments, the woman did not speak. She stared the man as memories
of the previous night began flooding her mind.
The man asked her to draw the blinds. She obeyed compliantly, and sauntered over to the window. As
the woman pulled gently on the cord, attempting to lower the shades, she noticed his presence suddenly close behind
her. She could hear him breathing heavily, his warm exhalations flowing down her supple neck, shivering her
spine.
The woman stopped herself before she went further into her recollection. She stopped
not because she was ashamed, but because she feared becoming ashamed. The woman longed to
remain innocent of the realizations of what she had done the night prior, and many nights
before then.
“What’s the matter?” The man wondered coyly.
“Nothing,” she replied. “Just thinking of how strange the world is.” The woman was a
talented liar, her acting skills sharpened from years of “displacing” the truth. She had become an
expert at discovering what the people she encountered wanted to hear, and even better at
delivering these discoveries.
“What do you mean?” said the man. The woman could tell immediately that the man
obviously did not contemplate philosophical matters often. She smiled inwardly. She continued,
wanting to see how far the man could follow her mind’s most intricate ravings.
“Well, I guess I’m not thinking of how strange the world is, but how cruel it is.” The
woman stole a quick glance at the man, trying to see his reaction. She still lied in bed, the sheets
wrinkled over her long, toned legs. Her “improvisation” continued:
“But it’s all a little weird to me…but, whatever…I was just thinking of how cruel – I
mean, cruel, but strange – that so much good can go on in one part of the world, while so much
evil can go on in another.” The woman looked at the man and saw confusion in his eyes. She sat
up and began looking around swiftly.
“Take these sheets, for example.” She was somewhat thrilled to be carrying on, not
knowing what she would say next, though she knew it now did not matter. Her now uncovered
breasts were causing such a strong diversion from her impromptu speech that she guessed that
the man was no longer listening to her words.
 “You see these sheets?” The woman asked. The man nodded eagerly, eyes intermittently
shifting downwards at the woman’s chest.
“These sheets covered us last night while we slept. No big deal, right? But do you know
what these sheets could have down if they were in a different part of the world?” There was no
response. The woman continued, determined to evoke some sort of reaction from the man.
“These sheets could have been used in – in Nigeria to – to smother newborn babies!”
The man’s gaze quickly snapped up, meeting the woman’s. She did not see hurt understanding in
his eyes as much as she detected surprised. The woman knew that he was most likely only taken
aback because of the spontaneity of the situation, not the content of what she was saying.
She waited for a reply. Seconds later, after no reply was voiced, the woman looked away
and pulled the sheets over her chest. The man, no longer interested, got to his feet and
continued began dressing.
“I mean, don’t you ever think about stuff like that?” Her tone was quieter.
“Yeah, I guess…”
After almost a minute of empty silence, the woman rose to her feet and began sliding
into her clothes, crumpled by the passionate fists of the man the night before. She pulled on
both shoulder straps of the mid-thigh length dress, zipped up the back, and walked towards the
mirror bolted on the wall. The woman looked intently at herself, studying every aspect of her
appearance. She thought herself to be rather pretty, if not exceptionally attractive. The woman
had learned to love her greater features and also how to deal with her small flaws. She was
content with her looks. As she scrutinized herself, the woman saw the man behind her,
gathering his suitcase. Once more, thoughts of the night prior entered her mind.
The woman could smell the man, his aroma now taking a distinct place in her mind. His rugged hands
brushed her smooth upper arms. She noticed how foreign his fingers felt, how unnaturally his hands moved. The
woman was not irked by this. She had felt this alien grasp before.
Again, the woman shook her head clear of any additional reminiscence and turned her
attention to the man.
“Hey,” he said gruffly, though the woman could tell he was trying to be tender. “I gotta
head out. I’ll pay for the room. The room key and money for, um, last night, is on that dresser.”
The woman realized that he was very nervous.
“I guess I should say…thank you…?” The man wondered sheepishly.
 “Don’t mention it.” The woman laughed, hiding her growing discomfort.
As the man’s fingers clutched the doorknob, the woman took note of the third finger of
his left hand. On it was a single golden band. She was not surprised, yet she found that every
time she discovered a ring on a client, it had the same shameful effect on her.
“You have my card, right?” The woman inquired as he stepped through the doorway.
She was required by her boss to ask this before every client’s departure.
“Yes…bye,” the man said softly.
“Bye.” The door shut and the woman was left alone in the room.
However, the woman knew that she was not entirely alone. In the disgusting hotel room,
full of frustrating cracks and bolted mirrors, something different accompanied the woman: her
mind. Her mind that was now, for the first time in her career, finally so full of shame. Sickened
by the pounding guilt and suddenly empathetic for the man’s wife, the woman suppressed the
urge to vomit. Instead, tears began streaming uncontrollably down her face. The woman could
not stop the influx of emotion flooding her brain. Although she knew that she could not let
regret take control of her, the woman let herself succumb to the pain for a moment. At the
expiration of that moment, she forced herself to stop, and continue on.
She stepped into her high-heeled shoes and faced the mirror again. Her mascara was wet
and flowing down her face. Her lipstick had become slightly smeared across the skin
surrounding her lips. Her hair fell in every direction, an unorganized bundle of twigs atop her
head. As she stared into the mirror this time, the woman was horrified by herself. She rotated a
quarter-turn and noticed that her thighs were not as thin as she thought they were.
The woman broke eye contact with the monster reflected in the mirror and grabbed her
purse from the bedside table. She attempted to straighten herself, taking several deep breaths
while closing her eyes. The woman put the money from the dresser into her purse and took the
room key. As she walked out the door, she peered back into the room, seeing the bed sheets
ruffled aimlessly. She shook her head and closed the door.
When the woman turned around, she was startled by a short, older woman towing a
wheeled plastic cart.
“Oh, excuse me,” the housekeeper apologized.
 “No problem.” The woman sniffed and cleared her throat. The housekeeper waddled by
her. She glanced at the contents of the cart: three rows of freshly laundered, evenly folded, light
blue sheets.