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This writing was accepted for publication in the 96 page perfect-bound ISSN# / ISBN# issue/book... “am I really extinct” Down in the Dirt (v122) (the Mar./Apr. 2014 Issue) You can also order this 6"x9" issue as a paperback book:

Order this writing in the book the Beaten Path (a Down in the Dirt Jan. - June 2014 collection book)		get the 372 page Jan. - June 2014 Down in the Dirt magazine issue collection 6" x 9" ISBN# paperback book:

The Ruse Made Real

Robert Crowl

    The alarm sounds, and she pulls herself from the king sized mattress. The house is quiet. All she hears is the slow pull and push of air from her mouth. Her body's weak like tissue paper. She slowly pitches her legs off the side of the bed, feet dangling six inches above the engineered hardwood floors. Her bluish gray eyes fixate on her pale feet, hovering with chipped and faded nail polish. She pulls the crumpled sheet to the head of the bed, smoothing the wrinkles with her palm, stuffing the excess between the east side of the mattress and box spring like an embalmer preparing a body for viewing. She walks around the foot of the bed, behind the bench seat, to the west side of the mattress to repeat the action. My nightstand is still littered with me: 'Down The Highway: The Life of Bob Dylan,' a Mini-Maglite, a canvas covered Kindle, a black click-pen, a dull Ticonderoga, a picture of my grandfather, and a post-card from Washington D.C. She ignores these remnants, but making the bed wasn't her idea. It was mine.
    She was a tornado in the morning, sleeping until the last possible minute before tearing from the mattress like a greyhound from the stocks. An unmade bed, unworthy articles of clothing, discarded footwear, coffee stained spoons, and puddles of water were all left in her wake. After she'd leave, I'd clean up the aftermath. I'd pull the sheets tight, tucking the mattress in with obsessive care. I made sure the duvet fell flush with dust ruffle like bedding on a showroom floor. My throw pillows faced the foot of the bed, a head bowed in prayer.
    Some mornings she'd join me. Her on the east side, me on the west, we'd pull the sheet as taut as an artery packed with plaque. Then, we'd smooth the wrinkles and drape the comforter to my liking. Sometimes, I'd make fun of myself, stretching my hands toward the sun and bringing them down in a grand, sweeping motion against the edges of the duvet. Her head would tilt back in laughter, her voice projecting in staccato fashion. I loved the way she laughed with all of her body: head back, ember hair vibrating, hand above her breast, one foot resting on the ball of her foot, and stomach making subtle breathy punches.
    She kneels on the hardwood floors, both fingers pressed firm into the down alternative of the comforter as she ensures the slight overlap of the duvet and the bed skirt. She remembers me walking east to west in a workman fashion, just to ensure identical draping. If I overcompensated on one side of the bed, I felt compelled to fix my error on the other. Her eyes sting sweet at the thought of my pacing, hair frightful, sun squeezing its way through the sheer curtain flooding the valley of muscles on my back.
    Once the comforter's in place, she collects the pillows, her weak hands still stained black as chalk sidewalks after the rain. She picks up two white pillows and places them against the wall. My pillow sits beside a stainless steel paper-reading lamp on the edge of my nightstand.
    Some nights she'd wake up to its yellow glow, my glasses disheveled against my dreaming cheeks, some words resting on my chest like a paper mountain. She'd gently fold it flat and place it on the glass nightstand, among the other flattened mountains. Next, she'd ease the metal frames from my cheeks and kiss the place they'd been resting.
    Earlier that day, she'd watched a mountain of loose dirt go flat against those same cheeks she'd moistened for years. She presses her face into the pillow, inhaling what's left of me: oak moss, salt, coumarin, sunscreen, a sour smell, and something indistinguishable, like the lingering notes of a meal already consumed. She exhales, hesitating several seconds before drawing another labored breath. The two oversized suede pillows follow, then the patterned ones, and, lastly, the miniature pillow with the fringe border. She looks at the horizontal V pattern of her creation. It resembles a bouquet of fresh flowers, the front pillow, the collection of stems, and those against the headboard, the blooms. This was the second bed she'd made today.
    She remembers asking me to make the bed with her in it, one morning. The sun pushed through the blinds as I went through my routine with her flat against the springs. I felt like I was wrapping a mummy when I pulled the sheets tight. We both laughed as I watched her disappear beneath the puffy duvet and even further still beneath the myriad of vibrant pillows. If not for the tiniest bump that began just after the deepest throw pillow, no one would've ever known she was there. She can still here us laughing at the ruse we'd created.
    She hoped the making of my bed had been a ruse, as well. She stood as the bed descended into the dirt, peaking over the edge and pacing the hole, east to west. The vibrant sod butted the edge of my resting place with amazing precision, except for a few misshapen and over-extended blades, which she was sure to prune flush with the holes' edge. The ruse had to be perfect. Like the duvet, she helped the gravediggers drape my casket in blankets of dirt; the soil hugging me like the comforter hugged her during our artifice. She beat the heap with the back of her shovel, making sure to strike a sunward pose before bringing it down in grandiose swats. To smooth the dirt, she got on all fours, running the palms of her hands foot to head and head to foot, a wave rushing in and dragging out. She felt me pulling the comforter soft against her. She sensed the pillows lining her back and heard our laughter, felt the weight of each pillow with each gasp for air. When she finished, she stood at the foot of me and tried to find the tiny bump. She hoped to see the soil vibrating with laugher and the subtle outline of my legs, but the soil laid silent and tight against me. A passerby would see nothing but a perfectly made bed, she thought. The ruse was perfect, perfect.

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