Push(114)

When I hear the alarm go off, I am lying on my side, and David’s body is nestled behind me. His arm is draped over my waist, and I can feel his breath on my neck. I switch off the clock, trying hard not to wake him. I want to lie here with his quiet body for a few minutes before I have to peel myself out of bed and get ready for work.

I don’t smell whisky or stale cigarettes. I just smell David. For some reason, his “sleepy smell” reminds me of honey—mellow and earthy. I’m reminded of how, as a small child, I used to enjoy the scent of our little dog when she uncurled herself from a nap. Her “sleepy smell” was reminiscent of a newly opened bag of corn chips, and when my father died and my mother sent her to live with another family, I missed that smell more than anything else about her. She was a little rough around the edges. I smile at the silly comparison between David Calgaro and Sasha the Sheltie: intoxicating “sleepy smells” and a little rough around the edges.

As I inhale David and think of my childhood, I wonder about his. I wonder if he had a pet. I wonder if he liked school. I wonder what his mother was like. I hope she loved her bright little bird. I hope she protected him from his alcoholic father better than my mother protected me. It brings me a little comfort knowing that, even though all of David’s girlfriends have somehow failed him, perhaps she didn’t. Perhaps, when she was still alive, he felt loved. Perhaps she hugged him and ruffled his hair and kissed him on the cheek before he stepped onto the school bus every morning. Perhaps she made him dinner and laid out a pair of freshly washed pajamas every night. Perhaps she took him to the movies and out for ice cream and did all the beautiful, loving things a mother is supposed to do. All the things my own mother did before my father died. I hope David was happy then. But somehow I doubt it. He told me a few days after we met that he didn’t believe his parents wanted the child they already had. Still...maybe he was loved and just didn’t know it.

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.