Wednesday, Nov. 09, 2005 @ 2:22 pm
He stands behind me combing out my hair. Tingles into my forearms. Carefully pulling the brush through my damp hair, laying it flat and parting it at the side.
I visit him on his lunch break. Jumping puddles across the muddy gravel lot. Hard hat. Flipping pages of plans, pointing up to the roof of the concrete warehouse. The others look up at me from their sandwiches and coffee, eyebrows raised.
I try to sneak out of bed in the morning to make tea, to read a book. He wakes slightly and pulls me back into the flannel abyss.. Don't go. You're mine, you're mine, you're mine.
He watches me focus on the mushrooms, sunshine, shining on the front lawn. I'm scarfed, wool coated, fresh-scrubbed and well-slept. I scamper to him waiting at the truck, heading out for breakfast. He gives me the hugest hug.
His grandmother says, as I am pushing a shoe off of one heel with the toe of the other foot, You look familiar. Small town North Van. She brings us too-strong tea, blueberry coffee cake. The house is warm and all, but I like them, I like this, and I feel at home. With him, here, I feel at home.