Anatomy of a Bedsheet

Kaye Kagaoan

It is Sunday morning in New York, but it is also Saturday night. At 3:01 a.m.,
Kims living room is nearly silent. Inanimate figures of passed-out friends string along the
hardwood floor atop cushions, magazines, and crumbled Cheerios whose crushed cries
are unheard under the dead weight of dormant bodies. A tobacco and patchouli-scented
Paddywax candle burns in a corner, its fragrance gradually defeating the potent smell of
marijuana and vodka-soaked body odour in the air.
Kims phone vibrates with a subtle staccato rhythm under her sweaty thighs. She
reaches for it, thus saving her skin from an awkward iPhone-shaped crater in the
morning. The screen reads Ian in glowing Helvetica Neue Light, and for a moment
Kims thumb hovers over the red circle to decline. Anyone in his or her right mind would
know the implications of answering a call from some guy at 3:02.
Fucking Adderall, Kim thinks to herself as her thumb reaches for the green. It is
mid-July and the days blur in and out of each other. In a few days she will look back at
this night and remember close to nothing.
Hello? she says, her speech still slurred yet shes still more awake than anyone in
the room. She gathers herself and manages to stand with the support of the glass-top
coffee table next to her, careful not to mess up the three meticulously formed lines on an
upside-down White Stripes CD.
Yes, Kim! Thank fuck youre still up. Ian is in Kims year at a small liberal arts
college that self-proclaims Ivy-esque prestige even though its name seems unheard of in
most crowds. They had seen each other earlier that night at Fat Buddha on 13th and
Avenue A, where Kim had thrown a party for anyone from their college who was in the
city for the summer. Kim was there, Ian was there, and despite a handful of forced
interactions, Kim had hoped that those few hours would make their bunch of small town
college kids feel a little less lost in the city.
On the phone Ian says something about the L being sketchy on late nights and
feeling stuck in Manhattan and not being used to the city just yet and how he cant afford
a cab until his next paycheck. Kim only half-processes his words, filtering them down to
the last sentence: Do you mind if I crash over at yours?
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He also mentions that, on top of everything, his phone is about to die.
Yeah, I dont really care, she surveys the six people at her apartment who
couldnt walk past the half block from the bar to Stuy Town, let alone be trusted to
stumble onto a barely-functioning L train. Kim has other reservations, but at 3:04 the
least she can do is play nice. You nearby?
Word, I did a shit ton of blow earlier so I decided to walk around a bit, but Im
on the corner of, uh, 11th and A, just past Tompkins Square Park. Can you meet me
outside fuck, my phone
As the call cuts off, Kims lips curl into an involuntary smirk, even though shes
not quite sure what shes smirking about or, rather, whats worth smirking about. She
slithers through the mess of limbs and torsos and cereal to her bedroom in an attempt to
make herself look a little more presentable, shaking the crumby rubble off her clothes and
skin, insufflating the tiny bump of light blue powder on her dresser as if there was enough
there to wake her up.
A shudder comes over her like sandpaper grazing the surface of her skin. From
the day they met during freshman orientation, Ian has always been more than an
acquaintance but never quite a friend. She remembers him as her first college crush, how
she used to admire him over small talk and from afar. Glimpse after glance after memory
races through her mind, including more than a handful that shed rather forget. Kim takes
in a slow pull of her bedrooms herb-scented air and exhales with a gust. She gathers
herself. She goes downstairs.
Ian is standing across the street from her building. He waves with a goofy grin,
breathing heavily as an outward expression of relief. Kim reciprocates with a half-smile
and a stiff two-fingered salute as he sprints across the dead street.
Hey, dude, sorry my phone died. At this hour, his smile is hypnotic.
Yeah, its cool. Im pretty tired, though, so, uh, we should just go upstairs. Tired
isnt quite the word, at least not for now, but its the first thing that pops into Kims head
as she toys with the ring of keys around her index finger. Her hands fidget as she inserts
the key into the buildings front door. Ian asks if shes cold and all she says is Nah man, I
think Im just tweaking a bit from earlier still.
The rapid decline of the nights stimulant binge terminates their conversation by
the time they reach the elevator. Theyve already skimmed through small talk of Ians
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semester in Spain at the party, and she doesnt see the point of repetition. Kim could ask
about his night since they had last seen each other, but she doesnt really want to hear
about his cocaine-fuelled stroll around the Lower East Side, either. There is nothing cool
or interesting about hearing about someone elses drug habits, at least not when she might
be worse off.
By 3:10, the elevator is occupied yet silent; only the hum of mechanical pulleys
fills the confined space, occasionally accented by the periodic ding that signals a new floor.
Kim half-smiles at the ambient drone and contemplates the word ambient and suddenly
all she can think of is how she could really use an Ambien right now, especially as she and
Ian exchange stolen glances every few seconds, as if gradually coming to some realisation
regarding their current circumstances.
Part of her feels that bringing him here is a mistake, but there are many
dimensions to a person and other forces in her mind that pull her thoughts and emotions
in different directions. She cant just throw him on the street now. All she can do is take
on the present, every moment at a time.
Mamihlapinatapai, which holds the world record for most succinct word, pops
into Kims head when Ian gestures as if to speak. Shed encountered the word on a
YouTube comment while watching scenes from Before Sunrise online. Taken from the
Yaghan language of Tierra del Fuego in South America, the word suggests a shared, silent
look between two people, both of whom understand what the other is thinking but
neither is willing to initiate an action. Kim wonders whether this current sensation is what
the word means. Like the word itself, her thoughts in this moment seem to have no direct
English translation, and a haze of half-formed thoughts keeps either mouth in the
elevator from making a proper sound.
At the eighth ding, the elevator doors creep apart. This is me, Kim sighs, and
they walk to a forest green painted door affixed with a wooden 8F.
Whoa, Ian says as he steps in. With the candle still burning in the corner, the
sleeping bodies have shifted since Kim left. Kim can still discern the skimpy space shed
occupied next to the coffee table, though someones arm now invades her former floor-
level quarters. The three lines of blow on the Elephant CD remain intact as an ironic
morning joke for the music snobs in the room.
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Did you ever play that Lava game back in elementary school? Kim whispers,
eyeing a path of puddle-like spaces between limb formations that conveniently leads to
her bedroom.
The what?
Its like tag or something. The people on the floor theyre the lava. If you step
on the lava, you die. That kinda shit.
Yeah, Ill be careful, Ian assures her with that devious smile of his. I dont
think Im that drunk anymore.
They tiptoe across the living room, with Kim delicately hopping from one patch
of hardwood to another. They giggle at the childish game theyve made of this, shushing
and muffling each others high pitched squeals and trying not to make much noise when
someones big toe grinds onto the occasional stray Cheerio. After they successfully
traverse to her bedroom, Kim cant help but feel stabs of dj vu jabbing into her insides.
Dude, how much did you pay to sublet this? Its sick, Ian asks. Compared to
the rest of the apartment, Kims room is a lot less cluttered.
She shrugs. I got a pretty sweet deal off Craigslist. Its, like, Columbia-priced.
Do you share the apartment with anyone?
Yeah, there are actually two NYU kids who live here, but they went to D.C. for
the weekend or something. Way to trash the place, right? Kim takes a sip of iced tea and
whatever its mixed with from a random glass on the floor.
Word, theres a lot going on in that other room.
Whatever. Ill clean it up in the morning.
Kim takes off her sandals and sprawls on top of her bed, but only for a second.
She sits right back up as she notices Ian approaching her. Even when shes half-awake,
Kim can picture the scene where their lips met for the first time, how hed gently laid her
on the mattress and covered her face and neck and shoulders with kisses, a strobe of
mental images that blur fantasy and memory.
Ian stands above her, his hands now planted on her thighs. For a moment Kim
allows him to do this, lets her excited nerves tingle at the points where they touch. Their
gazes lock and the feeling is all too familiar, with Ians blue and hazel suns for eyes
studying her figure in admiration. Her mind skips around like damaged vinyl, scanning her
skin for the scratches that once made her feel like she was his. Her fingers dig into the
5
same navy blue jersey from December as his face nears hers. Their kiss is not a kiss but a
history of past kisses and the stories that came with them. But, as with every other
ephemeral instance of this night, their kiss doesnt feel quite right. She turns away.
Whats up? Ian says, his voice tinged with unawareness along with what seems
like betrayal.
Kim sighs. I really I dont think we can do this again, man.
Her face sinks into a frown. Ian sits next to her, takes her hand in his. Kim feels
like tearing up but the comedown isnt quite there yet. Ian says, Is this about what
happened last time?
You could say that.
But I thought we took care of it. I got you Plan B, like, the next morning, right?
Dude, its not that simple. She breaks eye contact, knowing that she would have
to tell him at some point. Her nerves seem to implode, one by one, like simultaneous
supernovas, with every neuron pressing in on itself before finally dispersing into bits of
inexpressible nothingness throughout her body. That Plan B shit, it really fucked me up.
I got pretty sick from that. It made me vomit.
Shit, but thats like, normal, right? She knows the words he doesnt want to
hear. I mean, I saw you that next day. You seemed fine.
Well, I guess I wasnt. She remembers the sheet from the drug label: if you vomit
within 2 hours of taking the medication, call your healthcare professional to find out if you should repeat
the dose.
They might as well be asleep in this silence. It is still Saturday night, at the deadest
hour. The candle in the living room gasps through its last piece of wick, and the last bit of
charge drains from the sole timepiece in Kims pocket. She hears a single snore emanate
from under her bedroom door.
Ian looks at Kim with wide, desperate eyes. Did it fuck, did it not work?
In this moment she feels it for sure: mamihlapinatapai, except this is nowhere near
the mysterious chemistry from a stupid romance movie.
Ian speaks again, fills the silence of her hesitation. How long ago was that
again?
Eight months. She watches Ian piece everything together as his expression
droops.
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Fuck. Ians hand breaks away from Kims and covers his face.
Yup.
Fuck, thats fucked. Im so fucking sorry.
I know. Her words dont work as well as they should.
When did you--? She doesnt know why hes asking all these questions. She had
never planned on telling him. She had never thought of how shed answer.
February 7th. Kims lips resume their involuntary smirk, the movements of her
facial muscles dictated by the contents of orange pharmacy bottles. She knows this isnt
funny, but she doesnt know what else to do.
Why didnt you tell me?
Kim sighs. You were abroad, man. I wasnt gonna burden you from across the
Atlantic with some prematurely euthanized child. I didnt wanna do that to you. Besides,
Im fine now, mostly. She says, Im sorry.
You dont have to apologise. A pause. Im Im glad you told me, I guess.
Well, not glad, really, but I dont know what to say.
I didnt tell you anything. Kim still hasnt used the words pregnant or abortion
throughout their conversation. Then again, she doesnt need to.
Kim, Im so fucking sorry, Ian says.
Its cool.
Nah, its not cool, man. Id really fucking hate me right now if I were you.
I dont.
Their stillness sits like a scar on her bed. Ian seems to scramble for words, says
something reassuring along the lines of commending her bravery, how hes there for her
if she needs anything. These are words that Kim has heard from numerous others over
the last few months.
Like I said, its cool. Kim stands to charge her phone, and Ian lies back with a
heavy sigh, his face buried beneath his shaky hands. That conversation could have gotten
better, she thinks to herself, but theres no point in figuring out how to feel about any of
it. As she glances back at Ian, Kim notices how he takes up the same side of the mattress
as last time, stretching over the middle to bisect the bed. Ian rests half-asleep atop the
shadows of stains, the ruins of wet spots, the loose threads from clutching onto the fabric
too hard, and Kim remembers the details all too well. She walks over to the dresser, looks
7
for some means to medicate. Kim swears under her breath over an empty bottle labelled
thats run out of Klonopin and Valium until she can refill her stash, and she knows better
than to take any combination of Adderall, Ritalin and cocaine to fix this. Ian struggles to
sit up. With a sincere mumble he says, I still want to be friends, Kim, if thats okay with
you.
You want a cig? This is the closest to an affirmation that Kim can come up
with.
Sure.
Theyre Spirits. Do you want a whole one or would you rather share?
Um, a whole one, if thats okay.
Mkay, Kim says, but she wants to say thats probably better. She takes two
cigarettes from the light blue pack and hands him one. She reaches for an ashtray on the
nightstand. They each pull big black BIC lighters out of their pockets, both with the
safety clips taken out, and the sounds of flickering sparks fill the room.
What time is it? Ian asks. Kim sits next to him and they recline against her
pillows almost simultaneously. Their bodies do not touch.
Its almost five, I think. Suns coming up soon.
Im tired as fuck.
Me too.
They smoke without words. Ian falls asleep before he finishes his, so Kim ashes
his cigarette as she puts hers away. She whispers a good night that he does not hear.
Minutes pass and the fault line between them fluctuates in size, sometimes growing,
sometimes shrinking, sometimes seeming to mend, as the sky shifts from darkness to
blue.