What if it's bad news?
Then we'll do what we said.
I don't know if I can.
Coward.
"Coward."
"Seriously?"
"That's what she called me. We were making the bed, day before Meg went to the doctor."
"I hate making the bed. Too many goddamned pillows. You know what my wife says? They look nice. 'Dressing a bed' she calls it. Something like that. I say they're a pain in the ass and all I do is take them off at night anyway."
"Meg liked pillows."
"All women do, Tom. All women do."
Damn. Got enough pillows?
They make the bed pretty, Tom.
You're pretty enough.
I bet you say that to all the girls you date.
Nope.
"Listen, Ben—"
"My wife has a million of them. Pillows, I mean."
"What?"
"I said, 'my wife gets off on pillows.' Right now, we got eight on the bed. No, wait. Nine. Two to sleep on, two more regular ones with those things that flap out on all sides like wings. What do you call—"
"Shams."
"Right. Shams. Then two square ones that she says are European. Also with the flappy wing things."
No, Tom, the Euros go in the back. They're bigger. Put the smaller ones up front.
Does it matter that much?
Humor me.
I'll humor you, baby.
Tom! I just finished making the bed!
"Can we go for a drink or something? My treat."
"Sure, Tom. How's Friday? So where was I—oh, right. Numbers seven and eight. After we're done building Mount Fucking Kilimanjaro in five-million thread-count we got two small square ones in contrasting colors. They have to go points up, like diamond shapes, not like squares. I don't know, maybe they're supposed to be the foothills or something."
"Right."
"And in the center of those there's a round one that matches the big square ones. I mean, this is work, man, getting all those pillows lined up in the right order every morning."
"Yeah. Well."
Where's the round pillow?
Guess.
Meg, why the hell do you have a pillow in your pajamas?
Guess.
No way. Really?
"So anyway, she decided she didn't like the round pillow. Said it disrupted her feng shui or wa or something."
"Wa?"
"I said it screwed with her wa, Tom."
"I heard."
"So why'd you ask?"
"I think I lost you somewhere."
What did the doctor say, Meggie?
What?
I asked what the doctor said.
I lost the baby.
"The thing about women, Tom. The thing is, they're not like us."
"No."
"Take beds. Pillows, really, since we're on the subject. For a guy, a pillow's what you put your head on. A pillowcase is there so when you drool in the middle of the night, it doesn't get all over the pillow, because you can wash the case, but you can't wash the actual pillow—trust me. I tried it once. Maybe you can if it's polyester, but we've got goose down."
"Uh huh."
"That's it. That's what pillows are for."
"Ben, I—"
"Women, though, they get all wet about something that for us is just another tool. What size. How soft. What color case. What thread count. You know, if I make the bed with the pillowcase opening facing in, I catch hell. Hell, man. Like there's some fucking pillow god up there making rules. What I'm telling you is, pillows are only good for one thing. Am I right or am I right?"
"You're right."
"Women are wired all wrong."
"Yeah."
I love you, baby.
Oh, Tom. Tom, stop. Stop.
Now?
Now.
What's going on, Meggie?
It's no good. What we're doing. It's no damned good.
Feels pretty good to me.
I mean I can't get pregnant anymore. It's my ovaries. They're screwed up.
"You should get back out there, man. How long's it been?"
"Huh?"
"How long since Meg died?"
"A year."
"That's enough time."
You ever seen the pyramids, Tom?
Nope.
I want to see them.
Sure, baby. We'll go this spring.
Let's go next month.
"What's enough time?"
"Tom? You listening to me? I said a year."
"No it wasn't."
"You mean isn't."
"That's what I said. How about I set you up with Cheryl from Budget? She doesn't look like the type who wants pillows all over the freaking place. Kinda more streamlined. Minimalist. Nothing against Meg. But you can't spend every night at home watching bad TV."
I'm dying, Tom.
Fuck.
Sure. Every night if you want.
That's not funny.
"Listen, I'd better run. I left this morning and I didn't make the bed and if the boss gets home and finds the pillows on the floor, I catch it. Stupid pillows. Completely useless."
"Right. Useless."
A pillow would work, you know.
I couldn't.
Well, I sure as hell can't do it myself.
I can't, Meggie. I can't even imagine it.
Yes you can.
"I wasn't a coward."
"What?"
"Meg was wrong. In the end. I wasn't a coward."
"Course you weren't, man."
"I took care of her."
I love you, Meggie.
I love you, Tom.
No, really, I—
Better do it before you change your mind.
"We all know, Tom. We all know how hard it was. Anyway, you didn't want to stand around talking about pillows. What's up?"
"Nothing."
"You sure?
"Yeah, Ben. Sure."
"See you in the morning then. And we'll get that drink on Friday."
Just kiss me and tell me you'll see me in the morning.
BIO: Christina Dalcher is a theoretical linguist from the Land of Styron and Barbecue, where she writes, teaches, and channels Shirley Jackson. Her short work appears in After the Pause, McSweeney's, and New South Journal, among others; her novels feature a tall, dark, and gorgeous phonetician who solves knotty problems. She’s a 2016 Best of the Net nominee, and likes her pillows soft and flat. Find her at christinadalcher.com.