Comfort
D called me as I was driving home from work tonight. This was a follow-up to the email exchange we had during the day. I was surprised and pleased to know that he made it home intact.
A part of me was relieved to know that he was still speaking to me, after the snub this weekend. It's all so ridiculous. I don't care much for having blundered into another 'real' relationship, though I swore I wouldn't do it. I am weak in the face of loneliness. It's a horrible foe.
I sat in front of the computer all night, pouting and cold. I got so cold that I first resorted to putting on the shirt that Mac left draped over the back of my couch[--]dual comfort and warmth, like a security blanket[--]then, resorted to budging the thermostat up to just below 75.
In a strange sense of metaphor, I've noticed that this shirt smells only of laundry detergent and nothing more, despite having been worn. When I hugged D on Saturday, I could smell him. I know his smell, it's the smell of his hair or his skin. It's a warm smell. On Saturday, though, he smelled like cologne, as well. Certainly not for my benefit, of course. But I noticed. And with Rasputin, when I hug him, I walk away with his smell on my hands and my face from nuzzling against his collar. I inhale that for hours after he's gone and feel a sort of high.
Men emit a certain sort of smell from their skin that is all warmth and comfort. Some do, anyway. It is an invisible trait of beauty for the senses to behold only when you've been near them. It is the force that makes my heart pound when they sneak up behind me, and the change in temperature is the only sign that they are there, before I feel arms wrapping around me and breath on my neck.
But this shirt smells like soap, and Mac usually smells vaguely like cat food and old weed. That is just his smell. There is no warmth, there. The sentiment is good, but the chemistry is flawed. Or absent. It is attraction by rote. I feel ugly in his eyes, though he does have a fantastic body. He could do better, and would do so, if motivated to. That's how I feel about that.
D called me again, on his way home from meeting friends. I was so happy to have the company; I wore out the battery on his cell phone, again. He was only calling to remind me to send him a piece of software that I had promised, but I roped him into conversation. More accurately, he stayed on to keep me company because he's a good friend. I have good friends.
Speaking of which, I have already horribly disappointed myself in my gift selections for my friends 2 out of 3 times this year. I have great friends who have all saved my life in one way or another, but I suck at getting gifts for people. I always have. This is why I hate Christmas.
God, I need sleep.
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