The Bed

by Luciana Lopez

She’d never seen a Murphy bed before, except in old movies. Yet here, with its faux mahogany cabinet doors, was one hiding in its closet, and Marc, turning away from her, was pulling it out.

It saves a lot of space, he explained, kissing her again. They tumbled onto the bed, the neat rectangle of it, made up so carefully (as, surely, it must be every day). The mattress felt firm, the sheets cool. But the concept seemed a little ridiculous to her.

This was their second date. Their first had been at a restaurant nearby, and they’d kissed goodnight at the metro station for a glancing second. She’d stumbled forward a step when Marc retreated more quickly than she expected. He had kept his hands by his side. On her way home, she felt an angry phantom-burn on her arms where he had failed to touch her. The anger continued to smolder in her, and, two days later, when he called to ask for another date, she felt the goad of it and said yes.

Tonight, he’d cooked her lasagna at his apartment. She ate impatiently, and, when he suggested they go out for a movie, she yanked her shirt over her head and threw it to the floor. He stood quiet a moment, his eyes skittering like a horse’s, before reaching for her. He kissed her, then paused to pull out the bed.

All through the sex, she thought of the bed springing back into its place in the wall, carrying them into the darkened alcove. She told him what to do to her, and he did it; and then she told him what more to do, and he did that, as well. Yet through it all, she thought of the bed, of the childishness of it. Like a rollaway cot for a kid to stay in his parents’ hotel room. The stinginess of it.

In the morning, the alarm went off. He dressed quickly, but she had more time.

He arranged the sheets carefully; otherwise, he said, the bed wouldn’t fit back in. The corners were tucked in, the comforter turned back at the top, like her mother used to do.

He kissed her, bending her backwards awkwardly. His eyes had finally stopped jumping about in their sockets.

After he left, she locked the deadbolt behind him.

She’d stopped him from shoving the bed all the way back into the wall. Leave it out, she said. And Marc had smiled.

In a few motions, she’d pulled off the sheets and blanket and piled them in the center of the mattress, its dimpled top now exposed. She maneuvered the bed partway into its recess. The heaped-up bedclothes kept it from closing, just as Marc had said, and the bed jutted into the room at an odd angle, like a drawbridge caught between its duties.

When Marc came home, he would see the way she had intended such discord.