That smell of a man, it is life. There with my chin pressed in to his neck, the scent of his hair filling my nostrils. That musk of a man when he hasn’t washed his hair in days and it is thick with natural oils.
I’ve always loved that natural smell, and there with my arms around him close, our bodies stuck to one another and the little beads of sweat from there under the sheet, that is as it always should be. If only it always could be.
Some times he’d lay asleep on his back. His arm wrapped around me, holding me tight to him. My head snuggled into his side, under his arm pit, inhaling that wonderful scent of man. I would kiss him there gently and he’d murmur and a smile would come to his lips.
As I’d move to study his face he’d mistake my restlessness as my moving to escape. He’d squeeze me into him tight with his arms, and I’d rest back into that perfect place with my arm across his waist. Some times he’d be conscious enough that he’d lean down and kiss my forehead. Always with that happy smile on his lips. Oh those perfect lips.
I could hear his deep breathing of sleep. Feel his chest expand up against my arm. This peaceful sleep. Sleep. Sleep here forever in my arms.
It was pre-dawn. You know that time before the sun creeps over the eastern horizon and the sky is slowly growing lighter and lighter. That moment before the birds sing and the day begins a new. I hope for time to slow, to give me a few more moments of perfection.
I have begun to hate the pale blue in the trees. That moment where I know the sky is failing me. For I know as the day breaks, so does he. The spell not so much broken. No. Not broken. Never broken. I just know the guilt gets into him. I know he’ll awake and go. I won’t want him to go. I’ll offer breakfast. I’ll offer coffee or tea. He’ll dress and decline. I won’t want him to go, but he’ll go. I’ll kiss him goodbye wearing the sheet only, as I walk him to the door. I’ll watch his back go down the stairs. I’ll watch him go, and he’ll go home. Home to her.
I’ll crawl back into bed still wearing nothing but the sheet. I’ll smother my face into the pillow he’s just left behind. His scent still there, a lingering reminder of the man I love. But what is this love?
written by Barbara Doduk October 8, 2006