With hair still from your shower this morning, you leaned over my shoulder to catch a look at the Times before finishing your morning routine. As you leaned away disinterested in the paper, a drop of water fell from your head onto some mediocre review of a new Tapas restaurant that had opened up in the Village.
It had been no more than thirty minutes before I saw you again, whisking your way out the door and leaving ever the slightest peck on my cheek, so slight it was carried out the door with your momentum. In that time, I had made myself some of that French roast coffee I bought down at Crema, fried and eaten two eggs over a bed of asparagus, and washed up my dishes.
I went to the bedroom and lied down on the bed. I could smell your perfume from the bathroom. At first it gave off the aroma of lavender but moved on to more subtle notes of vanilla and ginger. I forgot what you smelled of between morning and sundown, after you left for work and before you returned home from your day. In the morning it was Dove soap, your shampoo, lotion. At night it was musty books or printer ink or something or other. Lavender was nice.
You returned home later that night, tired and hungry. I made you pasta carbonara with pancetta, and we sat at table while you niggled about the direction of the company, dissatisfied with the professionalism of both your coworkers and your boss. You thanked me for the pasta and left to slip into the shower like you had that morning. It was just before that that I’d caught the scent from your day at the office-warm electricity-like something from an overworked copy machine or paper shredder.
I’d finished loading the dishwasher as you finished your shower, just in time for me to brush my teeth beside you before we lied in bed. We reclined into bed like I had earlier that day, and shut the lights off, as if trying our best to hasten the start of the next morning. I turned toward you and slid my hand between your legs. I told you I missed the smell of lavender.
So I bought the new Barbara Kingsolver book, Flight Behavior, because I loved The Poisonwood Bible, which I had to read in high school. But I bought the book from my laptop for my nook, and I left the chord for my nook at school. So now I can’t start reading it until I get back to school. And that’s unlikely to happen because I’m taking 4 classes next term (we usually take 3), and this is a pointless post.
I like that after we fuck,
After you leave,
After I’m left lying alone in the tangled
Mess that is my sheets,
I can still taste the salt on my lips
Left by the undulating waves
That are your curves.
mad men + faceless