The new sheets

A short story - first draft

Cornelia was on her way to buy new sheets — it was almost spring, San Francisco was warm again, and she woke up with the urge to make a change. Her renewed spirit to buy something expensive might’ve been because she believed she was falling in love. This was a possibility. But Cornelia argued it was a utilitarian choice versus a romantic one.

How often do you use your bed sheets? Every night, she told herself, and hours on end — why not make an elevated choice for once in her life?

It had been far too long since she got a new duvet, a top sheet, and fresh pillows. As Cornelia changed her bed sheets last Sunday, she noticed the yellowing fabric on her pillows. She could almost make out the shape of her head, like a shroud that held the impression of her body.

Oh yes, she thought, the human body cannot be denied. The evening slipped into night, and she was getting ready for a new week. We all sweat, even when we are unconscious. She read a Snapple cap: most people release 200-500 mL of sweat in one night's sleep. That’s like a mug’s worth of water being slowly released through my pores over seven hours.

It was settled. Cornelia would get new sheets and make a day of it.

The love in question was still early, like the season they were in, but this love in question was also palpable. I suppose this is what people all meant: there was “something” between them: Cornelia and Zef.

Zef, I know. Not Jeff. Zef. Short for Jozef. This was a statement Cornelia had repeated to friends on a few separate occasions since they had met in November. The name was European, as was he, and yet, living in the city, his name also had a technocratic flair.

Late Saturday mornings were spent in bed, the one Bay window perennially open. They were high up enough for privacy. Cornelia lived on the top floor of a fishbowl, with windows wrapping around the corner apartment. It was a very old building, the color of a dry mango. She could feel the bones of the building quiver when heavy trucks drove down California Street. From her living room, she had a straight shot of Sutro Tower and the undulating hills that shaped the torso of the city.

Zef hadn’t seen Cornelia since Tuesday. His parents were in town, and he spent the greater part of the week taking them around — a tour of Muir Woods, Stinson Beach, and Palo Alto Shopping Center, he said. If Cornelia were honest, she’d say she felt dismissed. “Have fun,” she said. “Send me a photo.” It was too early to be complaining, and she had to work anyhow. As it stood, Zef always had a more flexible schedule. He was starting a business. He was ideating, he said, remaining tight-lipped on the prototype. But he was always so busy.

“I do a lot in a day,” Zef said to Cornelia one morning, his voice turned to stone.

“O.K.?” Cornelia said.

Where was this attitude coming from? Cornelia was getting ready for work, falling behind schedule. He always wanted to distract her it seemed. And now, he was quiet. She could feel his annoyance emanate from the corner, as he sat in the green chair by the window. He waited for her to get ready, watching her awkwardly lumber into her underpants and then pull her pants up in a few hops. They were going to take a car downtown.

But things were going well, Cornelia chimed to her friends.

In each other’s absence, the text messages helped: the virtual love notes ballooned that something between them. Cornelia kept the texts like evidence: she was desirable. And maybe that’s all she really needed to know when it came to dating men.

Was it true? Was Zef falling deeper in love with Cornelia by the day. He said this on the couch. And then he wrote it in a note he left her before he was gone for a few days. Could he really be honest — what this something he had never felt before?

Cornelia had been in love once. But she also thought she had been in love many times. She at least had this self-awareness — it’s harder to know what is precisely true until you have enough space to see a relationship clearly. Only with age did the details of a relationship become impressionistic with time; Cornelia knew that real love is a healthy willingness to be there for someone in all versions of themselves. She also knew by now that love is different from romance, and love always evolves.

In the early weeks of knowing Zef, Cornelia knew she had to tell him something. She was recently brokenhearted. That the version of her he was meeting was a version of someone recovered, not exactly the same as before. She wondered if he understood the calculus of what she was asking:

“Have you ever been devastated?” She asked him after their fourth date, the apartment filling with blue light as night fell.

“Of course,” he said. “It changed me.”

But what Cornelia really wanted to know was: Will you be careful?

Zef lived on the 27th floor overlooking the city — a massive complex made for denizens who wanted the semblance of good taste and in a new build. Cornelia didn’t feel at home. From the rooftop, you could see the natural monuments of the city. One night, they spent it admiring this thick skyscraper with pinstriped lights running down its facade.

In the near distance, Cornelia saw small neighborhood fireworks kick up like sparklers, a neon green sign on Mission Street pulled through clearly. Seeing the city from a new vantage point was never mundane.

Most of the time, Cornelia felt beautiful, but in the same way that beauty could be familiar, and how the familiar could also be forgettable. When she met new acquaintances, she often heard, “You look exactly like my friend.” She didn’t always take it as a compliment.

So the enthusiasm Zef carried for her during their early courtship always made her think: Is he for real? She wasn’t sure if she was just exactly his type or if his desire for her was just desire looking for a target.

Although he could love himself above others. One rainy afternoon, he bought Cornelia a bouquet of winter white roses. She carried a small Leica camera with her everywhere and took his picture while he held the flowers. In sight of the camera, he reflexively bent his eyes forward, like a man anamorphing into a fawn.

Whatever questions she had dissolved once there was wanting. Mostly, it was how she felt when his hands climbed up her back. It’s nice to be absorbed by another: “You are so beautiful,” he’d say. “But you already knew that.”

This was the memory of footage replaying in Cornelia’s mind for weeks, a place she’d slip to when her mind didn’t want to think of the present moment.

Now, she was on her way to DALU, where she’d “discover the best sleep of her life,” as the proprietor promised on the signpost placed at the storefront. The store owner was a handsome, comfortable man who wore a simple gray suit. His cash register was in the middle of the shop, with three bedroom sets surrounding him.

“Hello, I’m looking for new bedding,” said Cornelia.

“You’ve come to the right place.”

“Do you know the bedroom scene from Disney’s The Little Mermaid?”

“Not particularly.”

“It’s the scene where Ariel is a human woman. She’s never seen a bed before. The duvet is the color of custard. And she sinks into the bed and places her head on a pillow in such a way, like falling into a marshmallow. I’ve never been able to stop thinking about that scene. I’m looking for something like that.”

“Yes, a complete fantasy.”

The man was good at his job. Cornelia saw that he wasn’t wearing socks with his woven Italian loafers, and she felt willing to tell him exactly what she wanted.

“I’ll show you a few options with our finest thread count. We also offer sheets in bamboo and silk. Will this be your everyday set? And are you also looking for a new comforter?”

“Yes and yes,” Cornelia’s new refrain. “I want the fluffiest goose-feathered comforter you have. All-weather, so that it can work for summer and for winter months.”

“Yes, let’s get you exactly what you want.”

They came down to a luxurious comforter with a matching set of Italian white sheets, including a fitted and top sheet, as well as a duvet cover to match.

Cornelia thought about the raw, yellow stain on her flat pillow waiting for her at home. So, in addition to the comforter, Cornelia thought it was time to invest in four fresh new pillows. Two would pose as the facade of her freshly laundered bed, and two others would support her head while sleeping. And yes, she bought the pillow protectors as the proprietor encouraged it.

Once Cornelia made her final decisions, she was ready to leave as a new woman. This was an investment that contributed to the health of her greater life, she told herself. After all, an iPhone costs $1500 dollars, and she uses her bed just as much as she uses her phone.

Cornelia called a car to take her home. She didn’t anticipate the sheer mass she’d have to take home with a purchase like this.

She spent the rest of the afternoon washing the sheets at her corner laundromat with quarters she collected in a mason jar on her dresser. She discarded her old pillows to the corner of her room. She googled: Do you donate old pillows or throw them away?

Cornelia and Zef had plans to reunite that evening. She decided to buy a bottle of wine and a bouquet of bodega flowers. She opened every window to air out her apartment. She showered in the late afternoon.

Her new bed was made, and she felt like a fish turned into a woman. She sighed alone in her room. What else, what else?

On my way, Zef texted Cornelia.

Do you want me to make dinner or do you want to go out? She responded.

Let’s go out.

Time is strange when waiting for someone — what can one do for 10 to 20 minutes?

If a friend were to come over, Cornelia would begin a chore or read a chapter of a book. With an impetuous lover, she felt like she needed to prepare for arrival. Momentarily, Cornelia wondered if she’d ever feel relaxed dating a man.

She decided to do some rearranging. She pulled a small table to the other side of the bed. See, that’s your side, she’d tell him.

Cornelia kept extra contact lenses at Zef’s apartment, just in case. Really, she said, I hate having to carry so much with me all the time. He understood. “It’s hard to be a woman,” he said empathetically. Cornelia continues on a short tirade on baggage, and why women must carry stuff, whereas men only have to carry themselves.

The first night she went over to Zef’s, he had a little basket of toiletries for her — travel-sized face wash and deodorant for when she spent the night. “Am I in a hotel?” she asked.

At the time, Cornelia assumed he did this for every woman he was sleeping with, like a diplomat offers a gift when meeting with foreign emissaries.

But Cornelia appreciated that the toiletries were all in fresh packaging. She opened the Cedaphile bottle with zeal, the plastic lining still sealed around the cap, using her teeth to break the wrapper.

Cornelia saw Zef’s car approach her building from her corner window. She walked down her flight of stairs to let him into the gate, as the buzzer was still broken. Her landlord had no interest in fixing it: “The wiring was too fragile!” Everything was too old to be fixed. She accepted this reality.

“I didn’t want to wait any longer,” Zef said. He looked as though he had been sitting in the sun, the color of summer. They kissed in the doorframe, just as any kiss was a threshold.

They made their way back up the stairs.

Cornelia reintroduced her bed to Zef.

“Everything is new,” she said, her arms blooming. “I won’t even tell you how much I spent. But it’s everything I’ve ever wanted.”

Something flashed across Zef’s eyes. “Well, what are we waiting for?”

The afternoon was empty of any plans. The new sheets, like used napkins. The sun was setting, and the beginning of evening poured into the bedroom. Cornelia put on a robe and brought in a bottle, balancing it with two small glasses. She dipped the bottle and out came unusually orange wine.

“I could go for Chinese,” Zef said, fiddling with a cigarette in bed. She hated it when he smoked. She felt a little sick thinking about it all. Not that she didn’t enjoy it, or would do it again, but she felt more clarity, seeing him in this light.

“Oh, please don’t smoke,” she said

He lit the cigarette and stood by the window. He took one puff and put it out on the windowsill.

They planned to go to Dumpling Baby, four blocks down on California. Cornelia ordered the wonton soup. They sat without speaking, the small black bowls steaming between them. She watched Zef’s wrists as he lifted his spoon. The skin was blotched with rust-colored stains, like old pennies pressed against soft porcelain.

“Is that self-tanner?” Cornelia asked. He paused.

“I used my sister’s lotion. Do you like it?” Zef said, his voice like the embodiment of the BBC.

Had Cornelia embarrassed him? She wasn’t sure.

“Oh, yeah.” Cornelia said automatically. “Was it Jergen’s?. I have that lotion, too.”

They continued dinner. It was one of the better dumpling shops in the neighborhood, they both agreed.

Later, they showered. The clawfoot tub rocked slightly when he shifted his weight. As she stepped out, Cornelia dried herself with small, deliberate strokes, like polishing silver. The bottle of Jergen’s sat on the sink like a little joke between them, but he didn’t seem to notice. She left him in the bathroom and went to change into her nightgown.

The bed was neatly made, her new Italian cotton sheets crisp and pale in the lamplight. She cracked the window to let the city air in. Zef came into the bedroom only wearing his underwear. They didn’t say much as he returned to bed. They had sex, once again, as the blue night washed their thoughts out, and then they fell asleep.

Zef had left midmorning to meet someone he was looking to hire. It had reminded Cornelia that she hadn’t met any of Zef’s friends yet. This was strange to her, but “why rush it?” he told her.

The bottle of orange wine from the previous afternoon remained on her desk. The two glasses now felt sticky. It was 11 in the morning. She took a sip from what was left in the glass. She could feel the draft from the Bay window filter into the bedroom.

She remembered last night at the dumpling shop. Zef had leaned across the table, watching her the way people watch fish in a tank.

“American women are so unusual,” he said. “You tend to state the obvious.”

What was he getting at? She paused.

“You think you need to explain everything,” he added.

“I don’t think that is true?” Cornelia posed her opinion as a question. She wasn’t sure what their argument was about yet.

For just a moment, a veil was dropped. His face showed something she hadn’t seen in him: perhaps contempt — and then it passed. Maybe she imagined it. They finished the meal without another word.

When the couple at the next table rose to leave, Zef nodded toward them.

“That would never be my move,” Zef said to Cornelia.

“What move?” she asked.

“Didn’t you hear him? He asked her to split the check.”

She was relieved by the return of his good mood. “You are always generous,” she said, nudging the little silver plate of fortune cookies toward him.

Zef grabbed one and broke it cleanly down the middle with his thumb. Cornelia took the one that was left. The sweet plain cookie broke into several uneven shards.

She read its fortune: “You are closer to the truth than you wish to be.”

Later that next morning, Zef was now gone. Cornelia was standing in her bedroom, the morning light exposing everything plainly, like a photo taken in high exposure; her new sheets, the used napkins, the half-empty bottle of orange wine as breakfast glinted on the desk like some cheap relic. Cornelia noticed something on her sheets — the outline of a man.

Her new Italian sheets had a fresh stain, the imprint of his body, the color of pennies, leftover from the tanning lotion. Her sheets were ruined, and Cornelia wondered if he had done this on purpose.