My father loved my mother for the way she made the bed. This dawns on me as I wage the war of my fitted sheet, with the fourth corner lacking the slack necessary to make it to the end. She used an iron on her Egyptian cotton sheets, was convinced wrinkles would make their way through her satin peignoir. She made hospital corners with the sheets, needed to feel secure, heavily blanketed, even though her feet got stuck when she rolled over.

Occasionally, upon lying down, he wasn’t immediately thrust into this cocoon he’d become accustomed to. The sheets were clearly bunched up under his pajamas, the comforter was not centered, and that infamous fitted sheet seemed to have a life of its own, unable to find its final destination. These were the nights her hair looked, well, less than well coifed. Her glamorous fall laid peacefully at rest in her beauty bag.

He, too liked the tidy bed, felt relief in knowing the lumpy hillocks emanated from his flannel pajamas, not some bigger entity. Years passed and it became too much for him. He missed the humps and bumps, the fourth corner continually receding from its resting point. It was all too perfect. He began to prefer a crumpled up sheet, precariously clinging on to two corners, and way more blanket than he really deserved. He began to think he should make the bed.

But, he never did. She’d always done that. He never asked many questions, either. He’d accepted she’d grown to need such a perfect place for rest. But, were it not for that one day, you see, the day he forgot his lunch and didn’t think to call… He’d never have seen her, hot iron in hand, dressed in her finest, with her lover scurrying out the front door.

He loved her and left her for the way she made the bed- hot iron in hands, covering up her indiscretions.

That night he sneaked out somewhere between 2:00 and 3:00 a.m. and followed the sideways arrow the lamp cast upon the wall: “This way!” it seemed to say. His pants had landed themselves ever so neatly upon the corner bookshelf. He only wished his new silk boxers had surfaced there as well. The risk of finding it outweighed the benefits of a clandestine exit.

If he'd known better, he would have never agreed to go to bed with the window slightly cracked. His face, still 101 degrees from Portuguese Madeira, immediately froze with the solid wind off Lake Mendota. Her Camel Lights dispersed an ash blanket across their perfect bed.

The morning he left, the misty Madison, Wisconsin rain was replaced with more of a Midwestern torrential rain, chasing him horizontally from all directions. Before dawn, he waited on the curb, with his umbrella protecting his back side. The neighbors Eucalyptus tree occasionally blew across the property line, scratching at their house, creating unnecessary noise.

His black duffel bag lay on the sidewalk, filled to the brim. One might have thought he’d succeeded in stuffing it with a corpse. The street lamp created a much welcome glare, it seemed as if nothing but the rain fell that morning, until the Murphy’s window cast steadfast light upon the puddle under his feet. He was, for a moment, distracted by the Murphy’s activity, only to be interrupted by the day-glow orange cab and its squeaky brakes.

"How did you miss me getting up?" he wondered. Well, there wasn’t much to say, except what was left in the note on the bedside table.