All-Day Discontentment, Courtesy of Some New Sheets

My morning's predictability is broken by a delivery of brand-new sheets — replacement for anyone who's tired of sleeping on their holey, dingy, or otherwise less-than-perfect current set. Crisp, white, and machine-folded, the new ones seem like such a boon until I press them down into soapy basin water to wash out their starchiness and am struck by a memory, from another lifetime, of shopping boutiques all over the city for the perfect high-thread-count bachelor bedding. Consequently, I am astounded by my endless capacity for these sorts of mundane melancholies, and by the innocuous stuff that triggers them.

The new sheets, though run through the dryer with not one but two sheets of fabric softener, remain stiff. They're also doubtless infused at the factory with a special formula that induces numberless dreams of bygone days. Tonight, before I sit to write a letter to a friend, I fix myself a late cup of coffee. I am fully aware that doing so is less to enjoy a warm after-dinner beverage than to put off the inevitable.