I woke, disoriented for a moment because although I was sleeping on my bed with my usual quilt over me, the mattress under me was bare; the sheets were stacked on the bench of my bay window. They looked crisp and fresh and stain-free, and with that thought, the memories from last night came rushing back. I burrowed beneath the quilt with a groan, trying to find at least some reprieve from reality, but the pull and snag of the IV in the bend of my elbow sank the memories vividly and inescapably home. The quilt was warm and smelled lightly of mint. I used their soft comfort to keep the images from last night at bay. I took a deep breath and imagined Walker tucking me in after rummaging through my cabinets for bleach and Pine-Sol. I couldn’t imagine Walker mopping, but the clean shine of my hardwood floors spoke on behalf of his domestic skills. I squinted at my apartment floor, window, and walls from under my burrowed nest in the quilt, and everything, from the crisp sheets piled on the bay window to the holes in my now Swiss cheese–like walls were clean if not whole.
