I don’t know where my pillows went. Last time I saw them they were under the door. But they’re gone now. Obviously this is a problem.
Those pillows had been doing good work for me. Those pillows kept that door in check. That door has a mind of its own. You give it the slightest breeze and it’s ready to flee off its hinges. Which clearly it never will do. Those hinges are extremely effective. So the pillows weren’t quite meant to imprison it, but rather, to spare me the burden of watching a door swing about in futility.
But now the pillows are gone. I’m just lucky that, of my six pillows, I spared one from the door, to keep in bed with me, to serve my neck. In ideal circumstances, I’d have two in bed—one for my neck, and one to keep me company, or to grip in emergencies.
I can only guess why they left. The outside temperature has been warming. The mercury reached seventy-two. So my windows were up, but not as high as possible. I didn’t want to be reckless. When we hit seventy-eight, I’d lift them higher. Eighty, higher again. The pillows must’ve known eighty was coming. They must’ve known that the breeze would increase, that the door would swing even harder.
Tom Dibblee is Trop’s editor. His fiction has appeared in Glimmer Train and his nonfiction has appeared in Pacific Standard, the Los Angeles Review of Books, and the Point. He lives in Los Angeles.