On his bookshelf is the copy of The Little Prince that I had bought for him years ago. It creaks as it opens. The smell of the pages is almost wet. I finger through the pages. “I cannot believe you still have this.”
“Why would I get rid of it?” I do not say what I think; the plumes of panic and anger I inspired in him for years still hang in my memory like the smell of smoke in clothing. I had thought he hated me. It was not until a few months ago, drunk and into our friendship, that he said I am a wonderful woman. Never in our relationship, though it was almost too brief for words, had he said anything positive. I had to assume, but did so gladly.
“Why would you keep it?” Then I chuckle. “It is so funny that you kept it all this time, but you never read it.”
“I will.”
“Four years and you will?” Throwing eyebrows and words, I flip through the chapter about the Prince and the Fox. “I don’t believe you.”
“I will read it tomorrow!” He means it. One thing—he means things in the moment. He changes and turns like leaves tumble in autumn, but it is honest. Right now, I need honesty. I need to know that complications are too much for wanting more than momentary shelter, but sometimes we need to be safe next to someone. It has been a year and some change since anyone has touched me.
This is not your ordinary hook up. Not the kind that ends the way one would expect. We could get sex from strangers. It is easy to ask for sex and difficult to wait for love. There must be some intimacy in between, rationing through the cold years. We arrange to meet.
“Do you have a shirt?” I ask.
“No. I’m not done moving.”
“I hate sleeping in a turtle neck.” I had remembered a change of work clothes but oddly nothing to sleep in. He is perfectly toned in his striped green underwear. I feel “comfortable” looking over him. Maybe we have become favorite blankets or old couches.
“I have seen you naked before. Does it matter?” He gets into bed, casually, and flips on the television while looking my direction. We talk like we have known each other forever.
“No. I guess not.”
I slide into the bed, huge and luxe as the one in my storage container. Everything feels comfortable. Usually, I cannot sleep next to someone unless I am in love. We are not made for each other that way. Still, I remember sitting in a car with a driver who told me that I was in love. I loved us as children. I loved the gusto with which he eats cheese. I love that we fight. I love that I can see his mind move, though his quiet drives me mad. We are strange friends.
Curling into him, he puts his hand comfortably into my hair.
It gets so lonely. It is easy to forget. And I feel safe there with him—without the misery of mistakes. We already know the answers. No forever. No now. Still, it was necessary to cuddle. I needed to feel my skin against another body without bartering. It feels natural being next to him, the soft skin over taught muscle. I feel soft and small. I feel remembered in the feminine.
