It began one morning after N left for work. Getting ready in his apartment, I eyed the rumpled mess of sheets covering the mattress. The disfigured comforter looked lifeless. Pillows of varying sizes littered the carpet. Despite already running behind, I decided to spend the extra time to make his bed. This was a combined reflection of my Type A personality and nurturing instinct. I gently pulled the sheets upward until the creases vanished. I fluffed the comforter and tucked the edges into perfect little corners. I propped the color-coordinated pillows against the headboard.
After heading to the office, I forgot about my earlier bedmaking efforts. However later that evening, I received a sweet text message from N who was happily surprised by my small gesture. I think coming home to a neatly-made bed made him feel appreciated and cared for. I haven’t stopped making the bed since. The funny thing is, the second N sees his tidy bed, he rolls around in the covers and ruins the clean aesthetic like an excited child pouncing on a freshly raked pile of leaves. But I’m okay with that. I don’t mind him smashing the pillows into the headboard. I’m glad he messes up the linens and disrupts the perfect corners. Because it just means I get to make the bed for him all over again.