Blank Pillow Covers Novels & Stories

In the way Nick agrees to things — technically, precisely, without promising he won’t find a reason why one night becomes two. I pull a blanket from the hallway closet. Not the good one, the old grey one, scratchy, the one I use for laundry day when everything else is in the wash. I hand it to him. He takes it. Doesn’t comment on the quality. He’s smart enough to know the blanket is a statement and not a gift. “Pillow’s on the shelf above,” I say. “I don’t need a pillow.” “Suffer, then.”