Serta Perfect Sleeper

The house is quiet now Children gone His wife passed He is still a young man Or so he thought Standing in front of the linen closet he opens the doors Linens neatly folded and stacked Even the fitted sheets He was after all, an engineer Taking out a fresh set he walks slowly back to the bedroom The wooden shades are open today to let the late winter sunlight in The leaded glass in the upper frame is sending prisms of light Dancing and winking across the vaulted ceiling The bed is ready for him A queen size Serta Perfect Sleeper Its plush pillow top is stripped and laid bare He runs his fingers gently along the top of the mattress Closing his eyes, feeling each undulation under the satin covering He takes the fitted sheet, soft and silky in his hands He holds it up to his nose, it smells clean Crisp, like fresh linen Grabbing one end he quickly throws it up with a snap Unfurling it as the movement sends it across the bed He starts at the foot of the bed, right corner, moving the sheet into position Concentrating as he moves around, his fingers sliding in and out between the mattress and box spring In and out, in, out, in, out, in... Making sure it is a snug fit The end result meets with his approval Now he is ready for the more delicate placing of the top sheet A lot of care was put into folding the sheet after it was washed It appears as if it was ironed it is so smooth He strokes the soft material for a moment as memories flood his mind This used to bother him The intrusion every time he made the bed He has bowed in acceptance to it now He lays the sheet in the center of the bed Tenderly he unfolds it to its full length Then picking up the outer edge of the top fold, he pulls the sheet towards him Laying each section down upon the bed Lightly, almost reverently Until the final section falls free over the edge of the bed Floating down like a whisper He lifts up the bottom corner to make the requisite crease A slice of the hand under the mattress, like a machete Bring down the point and tuck Fit for military inspection he laughs to himself The ritual is repeated on the other side He bends slightly at the waist and starts to smooth the top sheet into place His fingertips lightly skimming the surface Smoothing out any bumps or creases Caressing the sheets with the flat of his hand He is stirred by his corporeal actions He lifts the silk duvet resting on the chair in the corner Places it down upon the bed Then gives it a few good shakes to fluff it up properly It nestles atop the bed, beckoning him to join him in repose There are more chores to do Laundry, vacuuming, dusting But none are as beguiling as the bed He scuffs off his slippers and heeds the duvet’s invitation Resting there, he sees specks of dust motoring about in a shaft of sunlight The house is quiet His lids are heavy Closing against the daylight Drifting, gliding backwards Time has blurred He reaches out to grasp the warmth Arising from the impression in the bed next to him Things are heating up He is a young man Or so he believes