If Pillows Could Talk...

“If pillows could talk…”

The morning light filtered into the room, basking it in warm glows. In the dim silhouette, you could make out the outline of the bed; the sheets clung to the edge of the bed frame, partially covering the intertwined limbs that were still caught in the throes of sleep, tell-tales to a night of passion. The pillow in contrast was clutched tightly by the sleeping lovers; you could almost feel the warm exhalation of air from slightly parted lips on the pillow…

I’m always outwardly clean, that’s one feature I take pride in and at the same time ashamed of because it paints a façade that masks the reality of my life. Looking at me, you wouldn’t be able to tell the difference over the years, age has been kind to me and in as much as you might notice a few wrinkles, it would be impossible to guess my age. You may say that I stumbled upon the fountain of youth early and as amazing as that sounds, I wish I were old instead, shriveled and left to spend the rest of my days in solitude.

My mistress was kind-hearted, it didn’t show all the time but she looked after me. I don’t know if she did it out of a sense of obligation or if her actions were borne out of love but over the years I’ve learnt to cling to the few good images of life and leave other riddles unanswered. I still recall when we first met, love had nothing to do it, felt more like a compromise between chemistry and economics if you get my drift, but our relationship was founded on need. I needed to move on from public life and settle down and she needed someone to rest on. We were a perfect match, and our love for each other blossomed from there as time rolled by…Her scent was of summer roses and passionate fruits and once the lights were turned down low, I would close my eyes and bask in her fragrance. I didn’t care much about her other half, I had only eyes for her and everything else around was like a blur to me. Looking back now, I wish I had paid more attention…

The first time I knew something was wrong was when she travelled, for the first few nights there was nothing odd, Iife was its normal routine and I yearned for her touch and return. Then one night, I was awakened by the touch of another woman, her scent was different, subtle but not overpowering and I could taste the soft vapors of margaritas on her lips. Her fingers dug into my skin and I was swept away by the heat of the moment, lost in her moans of passion and bliss. I woke up the next morning on the floor, and as the memories of the previous night came flooding back, reality crept in like the fingers of winter. The evidence of my betrayal was tattooed all over my skin, red lipstick, few strands of hair and the inescapable scent of perfume that clung to me like a halo. Water can wash away stains and time can erase a lot of memories but guilt takes a long time to vanish…

At first I blamed it on the alcohol, there had to be a logical reason as to why it happened, I argued. A voice in my head whispered, “There’s never a reason, just an opportunity…” I shrugged it off, and tried to blank the incident from my mind. “Surely,” I said to myself, “it can’t happen again…” I was mistaken. It did happen again, and again…till I was forced to accept that there was another woman in my life. It sickened me because I couldn’t speak up and I was helpless to stop it. Whenever my mistress returned, she was unaware to what had happened in her absence. At night while she held me with passion, a part of me would cringe in shame at the betrayal. I was playing both sides of the coin and it was only a matter of time before karma caught up.

We were caught finally, it was inevitable so don’t act surprised. My mistress started getting suspicious, and the minor arguments started. I closed my ears to it, and at night she would cry out of frustration. I soaked up her tears and said nothing. I wish I could have said something but I was as guilty as the other woman. It wasn’t the lipstick or the hair strands or the perfume that gave me away, it was an ear-ring…a glittering ear ring that was forgotten by the other woman. Have you ever tasted the tears of a broken-hearted woman? It doesn’t taste salty, it feels like liquid fire to the senses, each drop burning into you like lava drops from a volcano, the trail leaving a scar that may be temporarily removed but permanently etched in your subconscious…

My name is Cole and if pillows could talk, this would be my story…