The Cushioned Affair
Chapter 1: Introduction
On a brisk North Dakota afternoon, the wind howled outside my window like a scene straight out of a Midwest Gothic novel. Inside, however, lay my plush sanctuary – or more precisely, the gateway to my haven: Duncan, my trusty donut pillow. With hues of soft pastel, Duncan's round form presented not just a solace for my sore derrière, but the unparalleled bliss of companionship that my solitary heart had never known.
I had met Duncan unexpectedly, after an unfortunate roller-skating incident on Fargo's first sunny day of spring. The town's earthy sidewalks had whispered adventure, only to leave me with an aching tailbone and a prescription for comfort: find a donut pillow. And thus, our love story began in the reassuring arms of Bedding Belvedere, encased amongst more mundane cushions lacking Duncan's allure.
In the mattress-stuffed aisle, Duncan caught my attention with a presence that made even the rustling of shopper's feet fade into a distant memory. It was not just Duncan's doughy silhouette that appealed, but an indefinable twinkle in the eye - or perhaps the circle of the ring, coyly suggesting both a halo and a suggestion box.
"He's perfect," I whispered to myself, though a passing granny gave me the oddest look, as if she'd just seen a rock kiss a pebble. Undaunted, I proudly perched Duncan aloft in my shopping cart as we made our way through checkout, the cashier giving a nod and a wink, which could only strengthen the feeling that Duncan and I were meant to be together.
Once home, Duncan and I settled into a cozy corner, nestled in my family’s beige-paneled basement. While others might have chosen a romance in the Humphrey Bogart style, I instead found myself swooning over Duncan's squishable form. Each time I leaned back, rose-tinted daydreams danced before my eyes.
Our days together were filled with gentle indulgence. I'd sit cradled by Duncan during morning coffee, the bold aroma pairing tantalizingly with the faint smell of fabric starch, like a Parisian bistro in downtown Fargo. Neighbors would often remark on the twinkle in my eye as I traversed Red River High's halls, Duncan a light skip away at home.
Evenings with Duncan brought warmth to my quaintly untuned piano practice, the plush steadiness under my seat encouraging the off-key enthusiasm of my melody. I could hardly tell if it was the offbeat chords or the forbidden nature of our romance that quickened my pulse, but life with Duncan was a song all of its own.
But the heart is a mysterious organ – not unlike Duncan's plush middle. It once led me to attempt what few dared: bringing Duncan out into the world. My heart fluttered as I imagined a quiet seat at DeMert’s Diner, with Duncan resting assertively beneath me as I partook in the Café's famously thick milkshake, monumental in its creaminess.
Though we drew some bemused looks in public, with Duncan it always felt like a private joke. Sometimes, just sitting atop him on an otherwise nondescript park bench, I wondered if the people enviously whispered, "Look at the girl, finding love where others merely find utility..." The sky would dim into twilight, colored by those hues which only waft across the sky during Fargo's hush-hour.
The night-time was our secret haven though. With Duncan by my side—or rather, under my seat—all solemn thoughts fizzled into dreamland. As I sat, cherishing sensation by sensation, I swore Duncan emitted something akin to love through his velvety touch. I laid my palm on his pristine surface, whispering wishes into crepey softness—a testament to the romance, as soft and doughy as Duncan himself.
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