3. Choreplay
By Gordy Fluffer — Tucked sheets, fluffed pillows, and urges better folded.
Rafael arrived precisely on time, as always. But this time, he wasn’t alone.
He brought a bag. Not the usual soft-sided cleaning tote. No. This one was longer. Structured. Carried with two hands. The kind of bag that implied intent.
Harold (eyeing it):
“That’s not a cleaning bag. That’s a ‘we’re about to be emotionally exfoliated’ bag.”
Glenn (casually):
“I signed us up for the Linen Refresh.”
Harold:
“Come again?”
Glenn:
“It’s an add-on. He brings all the linens—sheets, towels, the works.”
Harold:
“Who brings towels to someone else’s house?”
Glenn:
“A professional, Harold. A man who understands fabric and dignity.”
Before Harold could invent new objections, Rafael stepped inside, the bag balanced over one shoulder like a sacred artifact.
“Today,” he said, “we address the bedroom.”
---
Rafael set the bag gently at the foot of the bed and unzipped it with the reverence of someone revealing a wedding dress. Inside: sheet sets, carefully folded towels, and something that looked like a lavender sachet wrapped in twine.
He removed each piece slowly, checking seams and smoothing creases with the side of his hand. Glenn leaned on the doorframe like it had betrayed him. Harold lingered in the hallway, pretending not to be impressed, but his pupils were tracking fabric like it owed him money.
Rafael held up the fitted sheet like a banner.
“Egyptian cotton,” he said. “Four hundred thread count. Cool when it needs to be. Soft where it counts.”
He unfolded it over the mattress with a single flick—no refolding, no second try. Just pure competence.
Then—he stepped back.
“Here,” he said, pressing his palm flat on the fabric. “Feel it.”
Glenn reached out like he was touching something rare and potentially sentient.
Glenn:
“Oh my god. It’s like velvet joined a monastery.”
Harold:
“I’ve met people less kind than this sheet.”
Rafael nodded once and got back to work. He tugged each corner into place with precision, smoothing the surface in practiced, silent strokes. No wasted movement. No commentary.
As he bent to reach the far corner, Glenn tilted his head—subtle, slow, like he was checking the angle of the sun.
Glenn (quietly):
“That sheet isn’t the only thing being hugged right now.”
Harold:
“Oh for god’s sake.”
Glenn:
“I’m just saying—those shorts are doing the Lord’s work. That’s a fitted cut.”
Harold (grumbling):
“We live in the desert, Glenn. You're already dehydrated.”
Glenn (wistful):
“And I would risk it all.”
Harold didn’t respond.
But he definitely stopped blinking.
---
Then came the top sheet.
He folded it once—lengthwise—then again into a wide band. He didn’t measure. He didn’t need to. It just worked.
“You don’t just sleep here,” he said. “This is where you land. Where everything else stops. It should feel like it knows you.”
Glenn didn’t respond. He was too busy watching Rafael tuck the corners tighter than his last tax return.
Harold cleared his throat. Loudly.
But didn’t leave.
---
Rafael opened the towel bundle next—thick, white, neatly rolled like pastries in a bakery that catered exclusively to retired opera singers.
He unfolded each one with care, stacked them with military precision, then adjusted one just a hair to the left.
Glenn (barely above a whisper):
“He just aligned the towels with the edge of the nightstand.”
Harold:
“Who does that?”
Glenn:
“Someone who respects the narrative flow of a room.”
Rafael stepped back and gave the bed a final look. Then he reached into the bag one last time and pulled out two pillowcases—crisp, embroidered, still warm from being ironed. He fitted them without a wrinkle, then fluffed each pillow with one sharp, downward chop that should not have been as satisfying as it was.
Harold:
“He chopped the pillow.”
Glenn:
“I felt that in my knees.”
---
Rafael stood at the foot of the bed, hands on his hips. He surveyed the space like a general reviewing the battlefield after a swift, flawless victory.
Then, as he picked up his now-empty linen bag, he turned to the door.
“You’re all set,” he said, voice calm, “for now.”
He paused—of course he paused—and added, with a glance over his shoulder:
“Next time, we deep-clean the pantry.”
And then he was gone.
The door clicked softly behind him.
Glenn and Harold stood in the bedroom, surrounded by perfection.
Glenn made a slow beeline for the fresh stack of towels.
He picked one up, pressed it to his cheek, and sighed like it had answered a question he didn’t know he’d asked.
Harold (grabbing his own):
“Well, at least we don’t have to fight over the good towel anymore.”
Glenn (muffled into terrycloth):
“They’re all good now.”
Harold didn’t respond right away.
But he followed.
—
End.