Free Sheets by Helen Ruby

A fter a mildly frantic search for paint supplies in his garage—supplies he knew he had, so he hadn’t bought them anew, and now he wondered if possibly his memory had failed him, as it so often did lately—he pulled the bucket from the high shelf.
    Paint brush. Stirrer. Handles. Rollers. Tape. And at the bottom of the bucket, a bundled-up sheet and some rags. Perfect .
    He bounded up the garage stairs two at a time, ready to begin the chore he assigned himself this rainy weekend: a new coat of paint in the living room. It’d been, what, ten years since he’d repainted? And now with his new puppy having eaten a hole in the drywall . . . it was due. Along with some crate training.
    As he unloaded the tools of the trade, he finally pulled out the sheet. Gave it a shake . It floated gently in the air before landing atop the items strewn beneath. Light blue. Very , very light blue now. He must have had that sheet thirty years, thirty-five years? He could almost see through it, so soft, so . . .
    M emories flashed through his mind, when this sheet had been on a bed in his college apartment in Central Florida. Where he had lain, tired and sweaty, after a hard game of baseball. Where he had lain, frustrated and bored, after hours-long study sessions. Where he had lain, heartbroken and morose, after a particularly tough breakup, burying his face in her smell that was still on the sheets. He lifted an edge and held it to his nose now. Could it possibly be?
    They had dated for just two years, but the memories were as close to him as this sheet was now . The sheet where she had lain tangled in a mess of her long locks, and long legs, and love. Asleep, but awake with the essence that was her, always her. It had always been her, and for a long time, especially right now, he remembered how true that still was.
    It hit him hard. He surprised himself by choking back a sudden wave of emotion. Whoa, if this sheet could talk . . .
    Too old for this, too tired for this, he shook his head and began taping the baseboards to protect them from the paint. He looked at the sheet.
    Man, sometimes he was just over the top with sentiment . Even his friends teased him about that . . . oh, if they could see him now.
    He laughed out loud and continued taping.

    T he scent caught him first—caught him before the sight of all sights that he could have ever imagined in the entirety of his life, midlife crisis or not, rose before him.
    The sheet. She was here.
    “So you wanna talk?”
    Before him, the soft sheet rose from the floor and twisted upward, into a tight twist that eventually untwisted in a subtle fall of material, only to twist again. Like a gentle tornado.
    A giggle.
    “So much fun, I remember. How much do you remember, luvah boy?”
    “Pretty much everything,” he said aloud then looked around the room to make sure he was alone, which he knew he was . Still, pretty weird, talking to a sheet. He scratched his chin, coarse with a few days of growth. He remembered she liked when his beard was rough like that, and she would often rub her cheeks against his, like a cat. She might have even purred. Knowing her, it was likely.
    “Yes, I purred.”
    He smiled. Well, there you have it.
    The sheet untwisted again and fell to the ground, a cotton-blend pile of . . . nothing but a sheet.
    NO!
    He reached for the sheet, touched it barely at first, then grabbed it in both hands and pulled it to his face, inhaled. He didn’t cry , but he was close. He didn’t freak out, but he was close.
    Another giggle.
    And the sheet then parted his hands and bade him to let go, as each end wrapped seductively around his neck. The bottom of the sheet wound from left to right around his waist. He was completely enveloped in the most loving touch he’d ever known. Covered in peace and complete joy.
    But it hadn’t always been that way with her. She’d been a stormy part of his life too, especially the part when she’d said goodbye forever.
    “Oh stop thinking so