November 05, 2010

Strawberry shampoo

Morning's a peach, so goes a song, and it truly is, when my eyelids flutter open and your warmth soaks through the blanket and I realize your arm is around me.
I wiggle, I wiggle again, gently—I don't want to wake you, you look ever so peaceful asleep—and look at you, taking in the quiet breathing. I know you're still asleep, but I put my lips on yours very, very lightly, and I taste cherry lipbalm: mine, not yours, remains from last night's intense make-out session.
My fingers feel slightly oily and I smell bananas and latex. Bright yellow wrappers litter the tile floor like confetti, and I spot a few condoms thrown carelessly under your bed.
(No, no, we did not go all the way; we just blew up the rubbers and played a little volleyball with them, and I love that I can be that silly with you, but I digress—)
Your hair smells familiar, the kind of familiar that I associate with my mom, and it hits me, that you both use the same strawberry-scented shampoo. In all triviality, I have to smile, that the two most important people to me use the same kind of hair product, and I begin to think that it was written in the stars, and I suppress a laugh at such a simple thought.

As much as I was saturated in the moment, though, I get nauseated by the fruit scents, and I broke the peace by sneezing, disgustingly, in the pillow.
Sorry, I whisper, unsure if you were awake. Go back to sleep.
Tis mmkay. I love you, sweet pea, you mumble, not even opening your eyes.
Aaah, on to vegetables now.

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