Fluffy(30)

And not between my legs.

Bright, natural light bounces off the whitewashed crossbeams in the kitchen, the big, antique iron and glass lanterns over the center island creating an interesting focal point that grounds me. Inhaling deeply, I smell clary sage and cinnamon, which tells me more than I learned about this house during my brief time as an accidental porn-set fluffer.

Will’s mother, or her interior designer, was going for the whole environment.

For the next hour, I consider relationships–of objects, not humans. People think that the stuff is what matters, and they’re right.

But only half right.

It’s also about the space. The relationship between objects, some complementary, some contradictory. How they exist relative to each other, and how we move between and around them. How we find our place in the world is dictated by arrangements.

Arrangements of items, people, and time.

I want my one percent, I text him, attaching pictures when I’m done.

Nice! he texts back.

Of course it is!

When it sells, he replies.

Get your checkbook ready, buddy, because this place will be under contract in a week, I text back, thumbs flying so fast, doubt can't creep in.

If this place is under contract in a week at full price, I’ll up that commission to one point two five and throw in a case of Fluff.

Deal! But you can keep the Fluff.

No deal. You have to take the Fluff or else.

Or else what?

No deal.

You’re forcing me to accept an entire case of Fluff because of a double entendre?

Yes.

That moves the joke out of the funny category into the stupid category. Why are you making me?

Because I already bought the case and have no desire to be stuck with it.

Too bad. You'll have to find something to do with all that Fluff. Think of it as a timesaver.

Timesaver?

Now you know what your lunches are for the next year.

I hate fluffernutter sandwiches.

Really? So do I. I thought I was the only kid in Massachusetts who didn’t like them, I text back.

Admitting you hate fluffernutter sandwiches when you live in New England is like saying you’re a Yankees fan.

You’re entitled to your opinion as long as you never, ever express it.

Yet another thing we have in common, Mal.

What else do we have in common?

We both want to sell my parents’ house.

Yes. But no Fluff for me.

Then the entire deal is off.

You can’t do that! We have a contract.

You want that extra .25 percent? Take the Fluff.

I’ll donate it to a food bank. If they'll take it.

That’s fine.

My phone rings and I jump. Unknown, the caller ID says, but it's a local number, and I know it’s Will.

“Fluffers Anonymous,” I answer without thinking.

“I'm looking for an anonymous fluffer,” he says. I close my eyes and conjure him in the office, jacket off, the tuft of chest hair at the V of his open shirt, the corded muscle of his forearms.

“Then you’ve come to the right place. How can I help you?”

“I need a professional fluffer to help me take care of a problem,” he says, voice dropping at the end.

“How big is the problem?”

“Twelve.”

I gulp. “Twelve, uh, what?” Inches?

“You really don’t like fluffernutters?” he asks, his voice smooth and inviting. I’m not expecting the question, so my mind goes blank.

“Uh.” I open the jar of Fluff and search the drawers for a spoon. “I’m really not a fan.”

Twelve inches? I want to ask. What did he mean by twelve?

“I’ve got a case of the stuff, twelve jars,” he says as I find a spoon and use it to dig into the creamy marshmallow goodness. “And besides," he says slowly, sensually, his voice taking on new character. “If you don’t like fluffernutters, why are you licking that spoon like it’s your last meal?”

I freeze. “Licking what? I’m not licking anything.” My tongue peeks out to catch a smear of fluff at the corner of my mouth.

“You are definitely licking something, Mallory. You wouldn't lie to me, would you?”

“How would you–wait a minute!” I look up and stare directly at a glass eye shining from a corner of the ceiling. Bingo!

Camera.

“You have cameras in here?” I put the spoon down and yank at the hem of my shirt, as if that alone will make my muffin top disappear.

“Yes. They’re new. I was calling to let you know, because I realized we hadn’t warned you. It was part of how we figured out the porn situation.”

“You said a neighbor told you!”

“She did. Then we checked the surveillance cameras and confirmed it.”

“You have cameras inside the house? Are they in the bathrooms? The bedrooms?”

“What? No. That’s illegal. We only installed them in the living room and the kitchen, and can legally turn them on to monitor under really specific conditions. The house is only being rented to corporations for daytime business activities.”

“Daytime what?”

“Focus group testing. Kitchen demonstrations. Small corporate training retreats. Not overnight, not vacationers. So the privacy element is a little different. If that idiot Spatula had read the rental contract, he'd have known,” he informs me, his voice a little too soothing, like a kid who got caught with his hand in the cookie jar, but before he took a bite.