It’s the smell of her hair. I remember lying down, holding her. It washed over me then, the sweet perfume. I had forgotten it. Surrounded by the faeries she reveres, I held her, wrapping my arms around her. She put her hands on my hands. “You’re so warm,” she whispered. “My own blanket.”
And that’s how we spent the night together. In her bed, holding each other. I fell asleep with the smell of her hair all around me. That’s all, nothing else. Because that was important. That she felt comfortable enough to have someone else there when she fell asleep. And it was me she chose.
She had left earlier, working the graveyard shift. We spent most of the day together, walking down 3rd Street, eating dinner at the Greek Cafe. When it started getting dark, she asked if I’d drive her home. When we arrived, she asked if I could come upstairs. She wanted the company as she got ready for work. Our conversation wasn’t done yet.
I followed her up, the old wood of the stairs creaking under our steps. The building is old, but not old in the way the rest of the world thinks of as old, but old as in the way Hollywood thinks of as old. Hollywood believes the whole wide world was born in the 1920’s, back when talkies were born. That “Era of Silent Pictures?” That’s like the Golden Age, the Mythic Age, like when Odysseus walked the Earth. This building was Hollywood old.
We walked down the hallway. I’d been in her apartment before. She unlocked the door with a big brass key. Then, she let me in. I’d been in her apartment before. I sat on the couch with her cats while she changed for work. It was late. She had to be there by 11. “You can crash on the bed if you want,” she told me. “If it’s too late to drive home.”
Driving home wasn’t a problem. I lived ten minutes away. “I’ll do that,” I said.
She came out of her dressing room/closet, beads jangling around her. “Good,” she said. Then, she left. It was 11. I passed out on her bed.
Much later, in the groggy and dim twilight between sleep and waking, I felt the bed shift. I felt the warmth of her body. I remember putting my arms around her and her hands on my hands.
“You’re warm,” she told me. “My own blanket.”
I woke up long enough to smell her hair. I thought she was asleep when I started crying. Not a deep weeping, but just a short, soft thing. Like a summer rain. I thought she was asleep, but she squeezed my hand.
“We’re okay,” she said. I held her tighter and she moved closer, our bodies folding in. We’d both been wounded. Hers was deeper than mine. I wanted to help her. To help her heal. Holding her now seemed the right way to start.
We fell asleep that way. Her, holding me, trusting me. And me, drifting, my tears on her hair.
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