Love Nest

It was getting expensive, buying a new mattress every time she brought a new man home. 

Some small superstition in her crammed each mattress up, back into their cellophane, like body bags. She would dispose of them properly; the ghosts would not bother whoever got them next.

But to her, like the old suits, the rogue socks, the phone numbers and the leftover toothpaste, each mattress held a story. Had held and cradled their love story, supported them in fights, creaked and squeaked reassuringly under them and had stood solid, silently waiting for them during the day, for their love to come back home. 

She looked forward to the day when she could buy the very last mattress.

(Conceived and written in less than five minutes, using Dead Hearts by Stars as a prompt/timer.)