Pillow Talk
Afra glanced at her phone. It was 11 PM, a time that felt early just a few months ago. She remembered when this was the hour she would leave her apartment for a night filled with dancing and debauchery.

Now, the prospect of being anywhere besides the comfort of her bed was punishment.

Sam lay next to her.

“How’s your hip?” he asked.

“It’s alright. Not too painful. I made it through an hour of dance rehearsal but didn’t stay for the second round,” she responded. “How about you? Has your knee gotten any better?”

He groaned. “Don’t ask.”

This had become their pillow talk. Each took inventory of the other’s ailments. It was hardly the stuff of fairy tales.

She stared at the ceiling. A question nagged at her. Where they romantic enough toward each other?

“Do you remember what it was like when we first began dating?” she asked.

“What what was like?” His response was groggy.

“Pillow talk! Sweet nothings. Affirmations of how happy we were.” she chided him with a whisper.

He laughed then sighed comically. “You didn’t like that kind of stuff.”

“Hey,” she propped her head on her palm. “I was just a kid when I first tried an olive. I spit it out and decided that I hated olives.”

“Mhm. No olives for Afra.”

“But, I still try them from time to time. Just to make sure.”

Samar scooted his body closer to hers. She completed the familiar process of adjusting herself into the crook of his arm.

“You still hate them.”

“This bed is huge,” she exclaimed.

“The only downside is that it’s harder to find you again when you roll away in the middle of the night,” he responded. “Then the first thing I hear in the morning is- how come you didn’t hold me last night?”

She quietly acknowledged the truth in this. Sam knew she would never give up her self-proclaimed right to hold him responsible for her roll-aways.

“I’m anxious about growing older,” she suddenly changed the conversation. “What if we don’t like it.”

“You want to go out.”

“It’s Friday night.”

“I’m ready if you are,” he teased.

Afra knew he had caught her bluff.

“Maybe tomorrow.”

He kissed her forehead. “Okay.”
['Rebeca Ansar']
['Short Story', 'Short Fiction', 'Novel', 'Storytelling', 'Fiction']