My hair has been a mess — a dry, unattractive mop of blonde. But unlike other people, you seem to keep your comments to yourself. I know you’re amused and slightly perturbed by the state of it, but at least you’re not dramatic about it.
That night, in between whiskey and a a lot of smokes, you put your head on my shoulder and you said, “Finally the strands can touch my face.” I laughed because you’d been whining about that for a while. And it really has been a long time since I could tie up my hair, or have someone tug at it. Your hand reached up to touch my hair on the other side of my face and I asked, “How many heads of dried hair have you touched?” You said, “Only one head who deliberately does this to her own hair.” Then you kissed my neck and ran your fingers through my hair. Black, red, brown, blonde, short or long — you were there at all stages. Just that some fingers felt more ghostly than the others.
I tell people that I don’t drink anymore, but the fact is I still do, especially when I’m with you, or when I’m thinking about you. Which is most of the time. And it’s also cheaper to drink at home — because my feelings are cheap anyway.
There was one warm night where I lay sprawled on your floor smoking and drinking. It was so warm that it got too troublesome sitting on the couch. And when you laid beside me, I remember telling you about the adventures of a boy. I said, “it’s nearly been a year we met.” And you said, “and yet, here you are.” But that’s because I have no where to be and I haven’t built a home, I frowned.
"You finish work at 10 and come home at 1130. How’s anyone going to meet you?"
"You would try if you really wanted to, right?"
"That is true. I try all the time. That’s why you’re here."
I wanted to pack up and leave, but the humidity of the night and the slow heat melted me into your floors. My hair smells like smoke, but you’re the only one still willing to put your face into my hair to smell it. “Smells like home,” you mumble. I hate summertime most of the time, because that’s the time my relationships spontaneously combust due to the heat. But slow nights like this, coupled with the sheer comfort in knowing that someone wanted me, made me stay to see what happens.