We were walking together on a crisp morning when you offered me your button shirt. I smiled and said thank you for being so nice, but part of me felt awkwardly feminine; I’m usually the chivalrous one. I didn’t fully appreciate it until after I got home — having forgotten to give it back — and realized it hadn’t been washed. I could smell your sweat and cologne, like rosemary and tea tree oil, and damp cedar after a winter rain.
I took my shirt off to put yours underneath, wearing it secretly the rest of the day. It made me feel courageous, like the best of me was joined by the best of you, and every time I tucked my chin I could catch your scent wafting from the armpits reminding me of the nights I slept over in your bed.
The next morning I stopped by your place to return it, a happy excuse to see you again. But sometimes I regret that stop — could have just put it with my other clothes, hid it mischievously in a pillowcase, waiting until you to asked for it back. I think of it when I wake up in the middle of the night and the things I brushed off during the day are suddenly howling back, and Nick (my boyfriend — going six years now) opens an eye and asks “why are you just sitting up in the dark?”
“No reason,” I tell him, “I just can’t sleep.” He grumbles something, pats my thigh and rolls over. I kiss the back of his head. He’s wonderful and familiar, often an island unto himself who takes such adorable pleasure in the littlest things, like peanut butter or a warm bath or his video games or cuddling up with, I’m serious now, like seven pillows at a time. Everybody knows I love him, but in those moments lying awake I think how nice it would be if you were there in our bed and wrapped up between Nick and me. And if that’s not happening, that’s when I could really use wrapping myself up in something that smells like you.
I wonder sometimes what humans were like before romantic stories, before cities or farms, religion, marriages or jealousy. I wonder how they slept — alone, in pairs or in groups — if they ever quarreled or felt dejected by their sleeping arrangements, or if they just sort of cozied up in a mound as the fire died, big haphazard pools of bodies against the chill of night. I wonder if that’s where our need for affection comes from — not necessarily sexual reproduction like people always say but just wanting to be safe and close and warm.
I wonder if they they paused to appreciate the feeling of holding another person, especially someone beautiful and new; I wonder if they looked forward to what they had so much more freely than we do today — their fill of love, love that no one is hurt or ashamed by, love that no one is ever persecuted for, enough love that love is no longer a human being’s greatest yearning and can finally be taken for granted. That’s what I think about when I’m with you — just all the love in the world.
