Pricked

7

Her

I wake up with closed eyes, cozy in my small oasis of sleep. I roll over, then register how empty the bed feels. How different the bed feels, and worst of all, how different it smells. My eyes jump open, and I glance around quickly, trying to piece together the sparse room around me. I smell the leftover scent of men clinging to the pillow under me. The dust motes float above me and as I exhale the particles are disrupted, running from me.

Like Namjoon, I think, as I reach out for him.

Like Namjoon? I sit up and process what I must have understood. I am alone in Namjoons bed. I have no recollection of anything happening, but that doesn't mean he doesn't. I try to think of why he'd be gone, aside from escaping me. He works out early, he also goes to school- but it's Sunday. We are missing groceries, and multiple lightbulbs and small things, but I check my phone and see that it's almost 11. He'd have to be doing all those in a row. I look at myself, examining my skin for marks, or discoloration, and sigh with relief at the lack of them. I throw my legs out from under the covers, and force myself to get up. The air has that spring chill to it, and I feel it more in my sleep shorts. I walk across the cold wood to my room, and pull on some sweats. I definitely need a hamper, I think as I toss my PJs onto the slowly growing pile of dirty clothes just inside my closet. I shut the door, and glance out my window. It's not nearly as sunny in my room, and when I look up, I realize it's because large clouds moved in, slowly but surely. I click my teeth and pull on a small white shirt. On the front a hand of cards shows a royal flush. I grab a pair of socks and walk downstairs. Seeing the large Tv installed, I wonder if anything's logged in. I turn it on and see the majority of streaming services, and with each I open, I find two profiles named M and N. I grin and decide on rewatching a Disney movie. These are far more popular in the states than here, so they feel uniquely nostalgic. I walk to the fridge and find some leftovers that seem to call my name. I put them on a plate and microwave them, watching the Tv from my spot in the kitchen. Despite the movie, I was still worrying about when Namjoon was coming back, about where he went, about how thing's will be when he gets back. The microwave beeps out a song, and I turn to pull my food out. The plate is so hot I have to drop it on the counter, and it makes a loud buzz as it vibrates in a small circle. I wipe my hands on my pants and grab a tea towel to help me transport it.

Leaving it on the table I go back for chopsticks when I hear a key turn the lock on the door. Spinning I see Namjoon walking in, in gym shorts and a black T, with a box that seems to have my bedding, as well as grocery bags.

"Hey, you made me breakfast!" He says with a sly grin. He pinched a noodle and ate it with his hand. I grimaced and gave him my chopsticks, knowing I owed him for the favour. I take the box with my bedsheets, and bringing it upstairs, trying to avoid whatever the hell will unravel downstairs. I take my time taking everything out the box, and put pillow cases on, and shove the duvet cover onto my blanket. I then look at the fitted sheet, which I know will be a challenge. I steal away my pride and lean out my door.

"Can you help me?"

I hear someone move downstairs. "Hmm?" He calls up in response.

"The fitted sheet..." I trail off and hear him start up the stairs. I shift my weight from one foot to the other, and he walks in, grinning slightly. I pick up the grey ball of fabric and hand him one corner. He walks over to the far corner, and lifts the mattress with one hand, sliping on one corner of the material with the other, as I get the opposite side. We both switch and do the last two at the same time. Then he wordlessly grabs the duvet and helps me make the bed, smoothing it out as we do. I feel an odd sense of rightness, and an image flashes into my mind. Doing this in a year, in ten years, making our bed, making our child's bed. I shake the thought away and look at his absent expression, and wonder if he's thinking the same thing. I watch him as he folds the edge of the cover, to make space for the pillows, and he glances at me, and we stay like that for a moment. He opens his mouth to speak, then closes it.