I didn't understand the test or the virtue of fragility. I have always been comforted by the lumps and folds in my bed, the crevices of linen where my dreams could hide away. But they said marriage would make me happy, and my mother insisted only a true princess would do.
Now here I am. Here we are.
My wife still has trouble sleeping unless the bed is prepared with many layers of silk, wool, and cotton. She inspects each layer, still skeptical my family will not maliciously insert a nut or berry of some sort, instead of the notorious pea. And speaking of peas, she has instructed the cook to stop serving them, as the sight of them on the dinner table reminds her of that "painful incident."
None of my attempts at being a good husband have succeeded. She can only bare the most gentle of kisses, and those still often leave bruises. The specially made satin slippers I got her ended up tearing into her soft flesh after she wore them for ten minutes. She was immobile for two days. The jewels I got her weighed too heavy on her neck, ears, and wrists, causing red marks, like shackles. I thought of getting smaller and lighter jewelry, but my mother insisted they would not be magnificent enough for royalty.
For now, I take solace in a few moments every day when my princess, after her nightly bath, calls me "love" and comes over to my bed to curl up next to me until she can no longer stand the hugging and spooning. Her skin hurts, her muscles hurt, her head hurts. It's time for her own towering bed. She goes to the ladder and climbs away from me.
YOU ARE READING
Your Room: A Flash Fiction Collection
Short StoryA series of quirky, often dark short stories. Each title also shows the number of minutes it takes to read it. Many can be read in a minute or less.
