The other morning, a couple hours after he left for work at dawn ... I pulled back the bed sheets to inventory the damage. It was a particularly juicy night of doing what we do.* (Apologies for the usage of “juicy”, but believe me, that is as polite a word as can be used in these circumstances.)
I didn’t find what I expected at all—how had we managed to be so neat? But what were these black marks? Ah, the axle grease he brings home on him from work. (And why he always tries not to use any of my “good” towels.) Here’s where I smile to myself. Larry. I remember him coming in late (he also roadies for a band), his aroma of whiskey and sweat and something industrial ... a hunched silhouette at the edge of my bed removing his shoes and clothes. I can see him giving his fingernails a quick survey. I was certain they were filthy—they usually are—but he gave them a passing grade and made his way across the duvet to me.
Another version of myself might have asked him to take a shower. But how could I? How could I care? This is my Larry we’re talking about. I want him—I want him just the way he is. Tall, young, handsome, strong Larry. Funny, goofy, enthusiastic, sweet Larry. Larry who will tell you the truth when you ask him. Larry who laughs and grins so easily. Larry who grabs you and lifts you up and spins you around in his arms like you’re a four-year old girl instead of a forty-four-year-old girl. Larry, who is “just passing through”. Some day I’ll really miss Larry and doing what we do. I hope I get to smell that smell again. And honestly? My soft blue 800-thread count sheets are soaking but I hope a little axle grease remains.
* Always had an aversion to the phrase ‘making love’ - it’s so euphemistic, to me anyway.
