Hearts and Bodies- cmbyn

Part Two

July came quickly. I found myself thinking less and less of the things that troubled me- how it would be to see Oliver again, the grief for my father, the worry of my mother's diminishing mental state. In all of the gaps that I would've found to think of such things before, I would instead call Michael and we would talk about our day. Or he would already be there- beside me in bed, at the barstool in my kitchen, handing me a warm towel as I stepped out of the shower. He soon became such a staple in my life that I found it hard to remember a time- even just last month- where he wasn't around to make sure I had eaten or that I was washing my clothes the right way. Michael never felt overbearing or like an intruder; he was entirely necessary. In fact, it felt as though he'd always been there in some way, as if he was refilling a hole that had once been full before.

As the day of my trip drew closer, I began to wonder if I should just bring him with me right away. I could introduce him to Oliver, have all the awkwardness be done away with in the first half hour. But then, it wouldn't be the same. Oliver and I couldn't have our quiet moments together, where both of us knew that the other was remembering the passion and desire we had once felt but didn't dare say a word. We couldn't exchange glances or crack jokes or be completely open and honest about how we felt. No, Michael couldn't come while Oliver was still there, it would just never be right.

I packed my case the night before my trip, standing in front of my closet in nothing but Michael's crumpled boxers that had been flung onto the floor in a careless passion. Now, he watched me pluck through every shirt hanging there. I still had a couple that Oliver might remember if he cared enough to remember the shirt I was wearing the first time he kissed me or that I wore on the train to Rome. Some part of me hoped that he might, but doubted that he did.

"I like that one." Michael said as my hand hovered over what else but Billowy, "I've never seen you wear it before."

"You haven't seen me wear most of them before." I said.

"You tend not to wear too many clothes when I am around." He chuckled.

And the conversation was over. I folded Billowy neatly and packed it into my bag, all the while my heart pounded in my chest. If Michael knew that this shirt had once belonged to Oliver, that he had been wearing it when I first laid eyes on him and the night we had first made love, would he still like it? Would he still want me to pack it? What if he had known that sometimes, when I missed Oliver, I would take off all of my own clothes and drape it over me just to feel something on my skin. One night, Michael had accidentally- or perhaps not- left his navy-blue button up slung over the back on the dining chair. He'd worn it that day, so it smelt of his cologne, and I'd brought it to my nose, remembering Michael and remembering my father. I'd taken it to my bedroom, watched myself in the mirror holding it in my hands. After a few moments, I folded it neatly and placed it on the stool at my piano, ready to give it back to him when he would arrive the next evening. Perhaps I hadn't had the desire to wear it because I had never wanted for his touch. He was always there to give it to me; we never wasted any time.

Michael drove me to the airport and kissed me deeply before I got out of the car. The taste of him still remained as I made my way through the gates and through baggage and all the way onto the plane. I did not like to eat before returning home, knowing that Mafalda's home cooking awaited me, so I carried the heaviness of Michael's kiss on my lips for the entire journey.