The Case of My Unmade Bed

Patchwork Quilt - Arifa Asariah

I was wondering at the state of my unmade bed.  You know: To make or not to make, that is the question... whether 'tis nobler in the long run to suffer the slings and arrows of husband's complaints or, by making it, so end it.  To sleep in the daytime; perchance to dream, and in that dream get out of any more housework.  You get the drift?  When all of a sudden my bed spoke.  What a shock to hear an unmade bed talk. Moan more like it!

"What the hell have you been doing in me?"  My bed wanted to know.

(I must just say here that its voice could have been either feminine or masculine and had a huskiness that comes from smoking too much or passion.)

"I'm so fed up of being used, jumped into without so much as a by-your-leave, then bumped and ground endlessly, like a trampoline.  Do I look the type? Well, really!"

I was too shocked to reply.  I just stood there, mouth agape, looking at the ruffled feelings of my crumpled bed and wondering where its mouth was: For I couldn't work out how it was talking.  Then I pinched myself.

"Ouch!"

"That's the first sensible thing you've done yet."  My impossible bed sneered.

I could almost see a look of disdain on a bed like face... if only I could imagine what a bed's face would look like.  If they have one?   I couldn't speak.  Talk to a bed: That was even crazier than a bed talking to me.

"When's the last time you changed my sheets?  Why don't you make me up all nice and neat in the mornings like other bed owners?  I know my rights!  Do you have to 'do it' every bloody night?  It really is a strain on my springs.  When did you ever take me out for an airing?  Oh!  I am so fed up being your bed I could cry!"

Have you ever heard a bed cry?  I can tell you, you don't want to.  It's horrible: A cross between squeaking springs and a werewolf's howl.  I tried to say soothing things like, "Now, now, I'm sorry.  I'll try and be more considerate when making love... maybe we'll do it on the floor?"  And things like that, but all that happened was the bed howled louder than before.

"It makes it worse, you trying to be kind."  The bed managed to say between sobs.  

"Well then, what do you want of me!"  I asked getting a tad irritable and feeling put upon by a mere object.

"Equal rights!"  It replied.

"Equal rights!" I was stunned, shocked and disgusted.  "How dare you, you piece of material object nothingness!  How dare you think you are equal to me; a human being!"  That was telling it!

Then I felt guilty.

"Sorry."  I said contritely.   "I didn't really mean what I said.  I'm just not used to thinking of you as... mmm... equal, whatever that means anyway."

My bed looked even more dishevelled than ever and had a pouty look about it.  I was beginning to read its 'beddy' language.  But it didn't speak.

"Look, I said I was sorry." I said testily.  "Oh, come on! Talk to me."

Nothing.

"I'll tickle you if you don't."

A slight movement of the covers, but nothing.

"Here I come, ready or not."

Nothing.

So I started tickling my bed.  I jumped on top of the covers and started tickling right in to the under sheets, digging in with my fingers pushing down to the mattress, saying:

"Tickle, tickle, beddy-boo."  As you would to a child.  "Tickle, tickle... Go on, you know you like it."

That's when I heard the noise from behind; like a half sob, half laugh.  I turned round and there he was, by the open door; with the look of someone who had been watching for quite a while.  

My ex-husband.