Voicemail

How a bed is made says a lot about a person. How their sheets are arranged and the state of which their pillow is fluffed speaks about what kind of person they are. How many times their sheets are washed and who they share it with.

I stare down at my messed up bed. It still smells like him, I don't want to wash the smell away. The faint lavender soap which he accidentally used from his sister's collection of soaps and shampoos and the minty gum he loves to chew. It all lingers within the folds of the sheets and the memories. The soft looks he gave me as I fought against the tide of sleep. How his hand gently brushed away my wavy hair from my eyes as he willed me to sleep.

His bed on the other hand is in pristine order. The corners are tight around the edges and not a wrinkle in sight. It is almost like a hospital bed. There is never a stray article of clothing loitering on the covers, it is barren.

I guess our beds are like our hearts. Mine a tumbled mess and his a barren wasteland. Both in need of the other, like two sides of a magnet. Always searching for the opposite.

✤✤✤

"Hello, this is Clay! Sorry, I can't answer the phone right now, probably because I'm spending a day with my wonderful girlfriend, please leave a message!"

The tonal beep rang in my ear as I continued my trek up to the house, savoring his voice.

"Hi, Clay. It's your wonderful girlfriend," I felt a shuddering laugh ricochet in my throat, the irony behind this, "I just miss your voice. I-I," I struggled to remember the real reason why I am calling him, "Yeah."

I ended the call and crossed back to the pavement of the driveway to my house. My shoes were soaked from the wet grass of the previous night's rain. I used to love to stay up and watch the raindrops dripping down the window pane and watch the lightning strike the Earth. Now, I curl up under my blanket and pretend nothing exists.

My mother's pinched lips greeted me as I walk onto our porch, "Cecilia, your shoes are soaked! Do I need to still remind you not to walk on the grass?"

I could feel the cold of this spring morning seep into my feet, but I didn't care. I seemed not to care about a lot of things anymore. The black pit inside of me yawned open, but I closed it for now.

"It's fine, I'll just change," I answered as I passed her into the house.

Our house seemed too large for the three of us. Too many open rooms with priceless pieces of junk, sometimes I believe that I grew up in a museum instead of a house. I shrugged off my jacket as my father came in stirring a bowl of batter.

"Hi, sweetheart! I'm making your favorite cookies!" he cast me a grin, but it didn't travel to his eyes.

"Thanks, but maybe later," I exchanged the same look and started my climb up the stairs.

"Let me know when you want them or to talk!" he responded cheerily and I heard my mother's hushed rage, "She doesn't want to talk, Frank."

I left them behind to their bickering and pushed open my room. My bed was in the same disorder as it has been. I refused my mom to wash the sheets or even make it. There was comfort in this array of the sheets. I grabbed my pillow and buried my face in it, I want his smell to suffocate me.

With my face still buried, I fished out my phone from my pocket and dialed his number again, "Hello, this is Clay! Sorry, I can't answer the phone right now, probably because I'm spending a day with my wonderful girlfriend, please leave a message!"