Soft As Your Pillow
By Brian McKenney
The bed, tucked neatly in the corner, led to a slanting wall, climbing toward the low ceiling, and lit by a single
overhead lamp. Francis Elliot lay face down on the bed, his face propped up between his two hands and reading.
As he was turning a page, he sighed and felt his heavy eyes and a growing drowsiness. Grabbing a small piece of
paper, quotes and page numbers and notes written all over it, Francis book-marked his page, closed his book and
turned on his side. Looking over to his left, on the inside half of the bed, Ester was awake and reading.
"Mind getting the light tonight?" he said.
"It might be awhile then."
"That's fine with me. I'm so tired I think I'd hardly notice."
Francis shifted clock-wise, back to his stomach, arms above his head, face resting partly on the pillow, partly in the
crevasse made by his bent elbow. In that half-sleep state, with eyes heavy and closed, and body comfortable,
Francis's thoughts drifted. For whatever reason, the thoughts of the night were always different than the thoughts of
the day. During the day, time spent felt like waiting. Like there was something bound to happen if you waited long
enough, but then the night would come and nothing would happen. But at night, even after a day full of
disappointment, of wasted time and boredom, there seemed to be a hope not possible in the day. There was the
lingering feeling of potential, not of time passed, but of things yet to come. It came and went with the night, with
minutes stretching out, and ideas blending and eventually, a calm and peaceful sleep.
"Never mind, you can turn off the light now," said Ester, tossing her book over Francis's head and onto the
hard-wood floor making a loud slap, and shaking Francis to alertness. Getting up, and walking slowly over to the
light switch across the room, half-asleep and nearly tripping over the scattered items on the floor, he looked over at
Ester.
"I thought you were going to read awhile longer."
"I did and anyway I have to get up early."
"All right."
Francis, now standing at the light switch, looking toward Ester, turned off the light and a blackness filled the room.
Carefully walking, he moved toward the bed, feeling the air in front of him with his hand, until he felt the firmness of
the box-spring against his shins. With the blankets pulled up to the neck, Francis returned again to his sleeping
position, flat against his stomach and felt plenty tired as he sunk into the mattress.
"Goodnight," he said.
"You're going right to sleep?"
"What do you mean?" he said, and turned his face towards Ester, although he could hardly see in the darkness.
"I just thought we could talk or something. Or at least hold each other."
With his unseeing eyes, Francis could still perceive Ester's face. He could feel her heavy gaze, and all the petty
trifle's of their relationship resurfaced in Francis's head. The thoughts were all together, too much to take, but
impossible to ignore. Now awake, with his eyes open and aware, Francis lifted his arm and put it around Ester.
Within minutes, she was asleep.
Francis could feel her breathing and his arm numbing with the weight of her body. He was glad they didn't fight. If
only they could always avoid it. If he could just express himself better. Life is a struggle he thought and a tragedy
and a joy. Life is your arm tingling, blood rushing, fingers prickling. Life is in this room, here and now. The only
question, not even a question, the only thing is to love Ester, he thought. With love, everything is fine. Better than
fine. What is perfect? Nothing. Or maybe everything. As long as you have love, you don't need perfect. With love,
perfection is just a word and living and breathing is the real thing. I should be grateful. Truly. Express it to her. Be
calm though. Always calm and serene and peaceful.
Barely audible over the white noise of the fan, Francis could perceive sounds of life coming through the window. In
the trees, birds were chirping and rustling the leaves. In the street, crowds of people, and in the distance cars, and
trucks. Francis felt the air begin to cool and bundled himself up in blankets. He lay listening to the sounds outside
the window, and eventually fell into a deep, calm sleep.
By Brian McKenney
The bed, tucked neatly in the corner, led to a slanting wall, climbing toward the low ceiling, and lit by a single
overhead lamp. Francis Elliot lay face down on the bed, his face propped up between his two hands and reading.
As he was turning a page, he sighed and felt his heavy eyes and a growing drowsiness. Grabbing a small piece of
paper, quotes and page numbers and notes written all over it, Francis book-marked his page, closed his book and
turned on his side. Looking over to his left, on the inside half of the bed, Ester was awake and reading.
"Mind getting the light tonight?" he said.
"It might be awhile then."
"That's fine with me. I'm so tired I think I'd hardly notice."
Francis shifted clock-wise, back to his stomach, arms above his head, face resting partly on the pillow, partly in the
crevasse made by his bent elbow. In that half-sleep state, with eyes heavy and closed, and body comfortable,
Francis's thoughts drifted. For whatever reason, the thoughts of the night were always different than the thoughts of
the day. During the day, time spent felt like waiting. Like there was something bound to happen if you waited long
enough, but then the night would come and nothing would happen. But at night, even after a day full of
disappointment, of wasted time and boredom, there seemed to be a hope not possible in the day. There was the
lingering feeling of potential, not of time passed, but of things yet to come. It came and went with the night, with
minutes stretching out, and ideas blending and eventually, a calm and peaceful sleep.
"Never mind, you can turn off the light now," said Ester, tossing her book over Francis's head and onto the
hard-wood floor making a loud slap, and shaking Francis to alertness. Getting up, and walking slowly over to the
light switch across the room, half-asleep and nearly tripping over the scattered items on the floor, he looked over at
Ester.
"I thought you were going to read awhile longer."
"I did and anyway I have to get up early."
"All right."
Francis, now standing at the light switch, looking toward Ester, turned off the light and a blackness filled the room.
Carefully walking, he moved toward the bed, feeling the air in front of him with his hand, until he felt the firmness of
the box-spring against his shins. With the blankets pulled up to the neck, Francis returned again to his sleeping
position, flat against his stomach and felt plenty tired as he sunk into the mattress.
"Goodnight," he said.
"You're going right to sleep?"
"What do you mean?" he said, and turned his face towards Ester, although he could hardly see in the darkness.
"I just thought we could talk or something. Or at least hold each other."
With his unseeing eyes, Francis could still perceive Ester's face. He could feel her heavy gaze, and all the petty
trifle's of their relationship resurfaced in Francis's head. The thoughts were all together, too much to take, but
impossible to ignore. Now awake, with his eyes open and aware, Francis lifted his arm and put it around Ester.
Within minutes, she was asleep.
Francis could feel her breathing and his arm numbing with the weight of her body. He was glad they didn't fight. If
only they could always avoid it. If he could just express himself better. Life is a struggle he thought and a tragedy
and a joy. Life is your arm tingling, blood rushing, fingers prickling. Life is in this room, here and now. The only
question, not even a question, the only thing is to love Ester, he thought. With love, everything is fine. Better than
fine. What is perfect? Nothing. Or maybe everything. As long as you have love, you don't need perfect. With love,
perfection is just a word and living and breathing is the real thing. I should be grateful. Truly. Express it to her. Be
calm though. Always calm and serene and peaceful.
Barely audible over the white noise of the fan, Francis could perceive sounds of life coming through the window. In
the trees, birds were chirping and rustling the leaves. In the street, crowds of people, and in the distance cars, and
trucks. Francis felt the air begin to cool and bundled himself up in blankets. He lay listening to the sounds outside
the window, and eventually fell into a deep, calm sleep.
New Hampshire Writers Flash Fiction
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