"Pillow"

The following story is a piece of flash fiction written by yours truly. You may or may not be surprised by the type of story based on what little you know of me and, more specifically, my usual sarcastic tone. This is what I do and I hope you find something of value in that which lies below, even if it's only fodder for trolling me.

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"Pillow"

     Knock, knock. The yellow door is all that differentiates Corey's family home from the rest, each house in the suburban subdivision is painted white with charcoal tiled roofs, no flowers, no color, only waist-high hedges blending into green grass, contrasting against white concrete, SUVs and minivans hidden behind garage doors. He peels open the door and I walk in without invitation, making a left at the family portrait next to the arched doorway leading to the living room decorated in blacks and whites with only hints of color in the form of roses and tulips. I take a seat in the full-sized sofa, blacker than asphalt, cling to one end, grab a throw pillow and slip it under my shirt. "Somebody's pregnant," Corey jokes. I pull out the pillow. "It's a baby boy!" he says, "Let's name him Pillow." I force a smile.

     "So..." Corey stands in the doorway separating hallway and living room, arms raised and attached to both ends, posed like Christ crucified, my salvation. "I was just playing around," he says, "Don't get all menopausal on me." I look up, smile, and suck on my lower lip, eyes gravitating towards a year's supply of GQ magazine, each packed with thin Post-Its, neon-colored, highlighting outfits his parents will buy, all orbiting around a crystal vase centered on the coffee table, filled with a mixture of purple tulips and blue roses.

     Corey flops down at the opposite end. "So babe, what's up?"

     I breathe in, turn towards him, raise my legs off the floor and cross them. "Well," I brush loose hair behind my right ear, resting my hand behind my neck. "I wanted to talk about us."

     "What about..." he stops before finishing, his attention drawn to stainless steel wind chimes in the form of hanging pots dangling in front of an open window in the kitchen.

     "Corey," I state with affirmation, "We're pretty good friends, right?"

     He nods.

     "You remember Kim's party last month, right? The kegger, the one where we—"

     "Hooked up? Yeah, I remember," he chuckles, "It was a good night. We got a little tipsy, one thing led to another, and we had some fun. I don't see what the big deal is, shit happens all the time."

     I move my hand from my neck, petting my earlobe with my forefinger and thumb, looking away and escaping into the void of the couch. What do you mean 'what's the big deal,' that it happens all the time, I think but do not say. I scan the room for inspiration and spot a Cosmopolitan I never noticed, hidden behind a repetition of two letters. I push the GQ magazines aside and read the headline: "Don't Think, Just Do It."

     "Do you like me or not?" I say, looking him in the eyes, "And I mean as more than just a friend."

     As he begins to answer, his house phone rings. Ring. "It was just a crazy night," he testifies, "It was fun and I wouldn't mind doing it again sometime, but nothing to get too worked up about." Ring. "I'm gonna grab the phone," he says, "Leave. Stay. Whatever." He jerks up, walks towards the arched doorway leading to the hallway, his eyes rolling in a mirror hanging just left of the doorway, makes a left and disappears. A blinking red light remains where he sat; the notification light of his cell phone. I grab it to place it on the table and it vibrates in my hand. I flip it open from habit and am welcomed by a new text message: "hey hunz, when can i cum over 4 sum luvin? xoxo." I'm not surprised, but I wanted to be. I don't wait to say goodbye or plead my case; instead, I let myself out through the arched doorway and down the hallway, left hand over stomach, right hand twisting the doorknob.