Push(97)

I feel his legs move behind mine, his hips press into my back, and his hand swipe slowly across my belly.
“Good morning,” he says quietly. “Are you going to get up and go to work?”
“Nah,” I say, “I think I’ll just stay here with you all day.”
“That would be nice,” he says, running his hand up to the top of my hip and resting it there. “I thought maybe you had fallen back to sleep.”
“Nope. I was just lying here thinking.”
“About?”
“You and your sleepy smell.”
“My what?”
“Your sleepy smell. You know, it’s what you smell like when you’re asleep. Everyone has a sleepy smell.”
“Really?” he says, keeping his voice quiet and his body still. “And what is my sleepy smell?”
“Well, on Wednesday mornings you usually smell like a drunken gambler, but your usual sleepy smell is like honey.”
“Seriously?” I can feel his head draw back when he says it. “Honey?”
“Yep. Honey. It’s a good smell. I used to have a dog that smelled like corn chips when she slept, so at least your smell is better than that.”
“I don’t think so. Corn chips are more manly than honey. Can’t you say I smell like something more masculine? I don’t know, like motor oil or exhaust or something?”
“Okay, then I’ll take back the honey smell and replace it with sawdust. How about that, carpenter man? Is that manly enough for you?” I am smiling from ear to ear, and I’m nearly laughing as I say it. But I feel him tighten after the words are out. I roll over, and I can see on his face that I have said something wrong.
“No. Not sawdust,” he says as I lift my hand to brush his cheek. “My dad used to smell like sawdust. And Scotch. A whole lot of Scotch.”
“Well,” I say with a forced smile, “then maybe we should just stick with the honey. It can be our little effeminate secret.” His lips curl into a small, tight grin, and he nods his head slightly.
We lie face-to-face in my bed for a minute or two before he speaks again. “My dad smelled like sawdust, and when I was really little, my mom smelled like fabric softener. I used to love the smell of dryer sheets because of her. I used to think we were rich because of that smell. But then, when she started to get sick, her smell changed. For a year or so before she died, she smelled like dirty skin and stagnant air. I think our whole apartment might have smelled like that.”
I take a breath. “Did she have cancer or something?” I ask, and before I can stop it, the sadness is welling up in my chest again. Compassion and sympathy and sorrow cram into my heart. I swallow hard in hopes of keeping my emotions to myself.
“No,” he says, still looking into my eyes. I think for a moment that he might stop talking, that he might not offer me anything else. He blinks a few times and touches my arm. “She wasn’t that kind of sick. She was just broken inside.”
“Oh.” It’s all I can say. He regards me for a moment or two. I think he is waiting for me to say something else. But I can’t. I can only mentally shove my tears back into my eye sockets. David closes his eyes and snuggles his head down into his pillow.
“You need to go to work, Emma, and I need to go back to sleep,” he says softly. “We can talk about it later. I’ll pick you up at work, and we’ll go get something to eat. Okay?”
“Okay,” I say, kissing him on the forehead. I know that I will spend the entire day thinking about David’s mother. About what he means by “she was just broken inside.” I steady my breath and consider asking him outright, but I know from his closed eyes that he is done talking. “Good night, David,” I add, lightly brushing his cheek with my hand as I climb out of bed.
I gather my things and head to the bathroom, pulling my favorite green dress from the closet as I go. I was wearing this dress the night I went up to his apartment and straddled his lap in front of his friends. When he picks me up tonight, I want him to see it and remember our first night together. I want this dress to remind him that I was the one who made the first move. I was the one who wanted us first. And I hope seeing it serves as some sort of confirmation for him. Proof that I love him. Proof that I want to be with him, despite the wounds the past has fashioned for both of us.
* * *

Instead of thinking of David and his mother all morning, I am surprised to find myself engaged in an all-too-lively discourse with Matt and one of my supervisors. We are debating the merits of several different schematic circuit designs and having trouble coming to a consensus about it. I’m eating this shit up—not only because I’m presenting an intelligent and accurate argument, but also because they are listening. I think I may be right about this, and it is so f*cking satisfying just to be heard. When lunchtime arrives, we still haven’t settled on the specific design, but we are making great progress. Their openness to my ideas is thrilling, and I can’t wait to tell David about it.
Matt ends up grabbing us a quick lunch from the cafeteria, and we eat it as we work. It is nearly four o’clock before I am able to head back to my cubicle and check my cell. When I flip it open, I find a message from David. It was sent nearly two hours ago.


Hi.


Hi back.


Sorry about this morning.


Sorry for what?


Leaving the conversation so open-ended. Didn’t want u to be late for work.


No worries.