Mona has a headache. It began mild but has turned splitting; after taking three Advil, she changes into a worn Trainspotting T-shirt, takes off her pants, and lies down. A peppermint essential oil, recently given to her by a friend and meant to help these headaches, sits on her bedside table. Mona doesn’t reach for it. Instead she curls up sideways and closes her eyes. The sheets smell like her mother’s laundry detergent.
Mona is beginning to wonder whether the headache could qualify as a migraine when the doorbell rings. She opens her eyes and stares at the wall in front of her. She can’t think who would be knocking but swings her legs over the side of the bed and goes downstairs. Her small apartment is carpeted, which occasionally irritates her; she lives alone, so it serves none of the practical purpose of muffling footsteps, and begs too much upkeep. Mona does not own a vacuum.
She opens the door. Thomas, in his regular work outfit of a sweater and khakis, grins at her. When he had taken this job, Mona had driven them to the strip mall on the other side of town to find appropriate office clothes. Sometimes it seems he can’t decide things without her opinion, though perhaps this is because he’s become accustomed to her providing it.
Now, Thomas seems confused at the sight of Mona, perhaps because she lacks pants. Mona looks down and then back up at Thomas and turns around. He follows her inside, shutting the door behind him. Mona takes a seat at one of the stools by her kitchen counter. She rubs her eyes.
“I brought you this,” says Thomas, handing her two takeout coffees and turning to the cabinet to remove mugs. “You okay?” He takes the coffee back and pours each cup into the mugs. Taking the half and half out of the refrigerator, he empties a splash into one mug and slides it across the counter to Mona.
“Tom, I have a pounding headache,” says Mona.
“I’m sorry,” he says. “Do you want me to go?”
“No,” says Mona quickly. “I just forgot I asked you over.” Thomas often comes over on his lunch break, though he hasn’t in a while; Mona suspects this is because he has been seeing, on and off, a woman from his office. Thomas recently informed Mona that the woman had gotten back with her former-football-player ex. Can’t quite fault her for that, he’d said undramatically.
Mona, who works alone with no real schedule, doesn’t mind these afternoon interruptions. In fact she has missed them.
“I can go,” Tom says again.
“No,” Mona says again. She picks up her mug and begins up the stairs. He follows far enough behind that he won’t see her underwear from under her shirt. When they reach the top she turns into her bedroom and he flicks off the light.
“I had the most hilarious dream last night,” says Tom.
“Yes?” says Mona.
As she lies down, Tom wanders over to her nightstand and picks up a pack of Marlboros Mona had bought in a brief moment of wanting to become cooler. He generously says nothing, just turns them over in his hand and replaces them on top of the stack of books: paperbacks, thin essay collections, and one worn copy of Howl. Thomas rarely reads, only when his mother sends him articles, which he sends to Mona, which she tells him are good for his mind.
“We were at my mom’s house, in the bunk beds, and we both had the flu,” Tom says. Mona closes her eyes. They are 25, and she can’t remember the last time either of them had the flu.
“Okay,” she says. “Go on.”
“She was pressing cold towels to our foreheads, and there was soup, tomato, and flannel sheets.”
“I don’t think you have flannel sheets.”
“I don’t, and I suspect my brother doesn’t either.” Their families still lived in Glasgow; when they’d moved to London at the same time, both of their mothers—who famously hated one another—had cried. At least they’ll have each other, Tom’s mother had said. It was true. “Right. So who knows where the flannel sheets came from.”
“Right.”
Tom walks to the window. He stares out of it for a moment—at the trees, the light, the coffee shop across the street, what Mona must see when she sits and writes. He wonders briefly if she thinks of what she’s looking at, or if her mind is always elsewhere, crafting a story. Sometimes in conversation he can tell she’s mentally noting down dialogue to include in a piece, but he doesn’t point this out unless she’s really irritating him.
“Was that the whole dream?” Mona asks.
“Hmm?”
“I mean, did anything else happen?”
“Oh, no, that was all. I think I was on the top bunk at first but then I climbed down to talk to you because I was bored.”
“Of course,” replies Mona. “I wonder what the hidden meaning of the dream was. Maybe just that you really like to talk to me.” She looks at him out of the corner of her eye, smirking slightly.
Thomas sits on the edge of the bed, and Mona rolls over to face him.
“Oh, too true,” he says. “I’m an easy read. Or maybe it was foreshadowing this moment.” Mona smacks his arm, but lightly. “I didn’t ask you to take care of me.”
“But how can I leave you like this, in such a fragile state?”
“Well,” she says, smiling slightly, “if you’re offering…” Mona likes this about Tom—he’s smart, perceptive, doesn’t need things explained to him. He knows she wants him to stay. “I’ll make some tea,” he says. “The coffee won’t be good for that headache.” Mona nods.
Downstairs, Thomas finds another mug and puts the water on to boil; he looks through Mona’s small and specific tea selection and picks a peppermint-lavender-chamomile mix. Mona doesn’t get headaches often, or hasn’t since they were children. Thomas wonders if something is wrong, but will wait to ask until he thinks she’ll answer honestly.
When he returns upstairs, Mona is lying in the same position. He sets the tea down on her nightstand.
“Tommy,” she says, as if it just occurred to her.
“Mo,” he says. He rarely calls her this, but it strikes him now. She seems small, curled and unmoving, desiring his company.
He lies down beside her on the bed. In this way the moment is like his dream, only his mother isn’t there to care for them; it’s just the two of them together on their own. Thomas pulls the blanket up to Mona’s shoulders, and waits there until she has fallen asleep.
This week, Roya Reese paints an aching picture in the Nassau Weekly. I don’t have a joke. This one really warmed my heart.