June 27, 2003
The New House
Unlike last time, I found myself hefting boxes, weilding packing tape, and rifling through the various pots and pans of Mike's kitchen, able to discern which of those were his and which were Kevin's, based on their state of cleanliness.
Mike's, obviously, were not crusted with indefinable, well, crust.
Last night found the two of us wandering the aisles of Home Depot for paint and outlet face plates and contact paper. As for the first, Mike was forced to buy an actual colour due to the magenta state of the master bedroom walls, and he settled on a sort of muted, soft brown colour. I grasped eagerly at some gilded, victorian looking face plates, and Mike bought an economy box of off white.
We wandered around the outside looking at various plants for the garden I'm planning outside: I'm thinking overgrown-but-well-kept wildflowers and grasses. His undue grouchiness faded somewhat as we imagined the Garden That Could Be, and faded almost entirely when we perused the lawnmowers.
At home, I'd sleep as he broke down the computer desk. There is almost nothing more comforting to me than the sounds of him in a nearby room, soon to come to bed. Outside of his actually coming, of course, curling around me, and kissing my neck.
When we woke the next morning at Fred's knocking and presentation of breakfast (hot coffee and bagels spread with real butter), there was much packing to do. Our vain attempts at telekinesis were just that, vain, but a source of great amusment all the same.
I remember staring at things for hours when I was a kid, determined. So does he.
The U-Haul had pink mushrooms on the side, this time, much to my chagrin, and we filled it with all manner of loose and packaged possessions. Mike, surprisingly, being the frugal man that he is, had an amazing array of crap.
He wore the ski goggles as we packed, and no shirt as we loaded things. A lovely affair.
I would like to fashion some sort of poet-prose bit to relay the sweetness in his face and voice, but today, it seemed, was a day for the SLR camera I have yet to acquire. I shall have to hoarde these images in my mind as memories, but I hope, in the future, that I can share a few similar.
I kissed him in the kitchen, on the cracker-crumb strewn ceramic tiled floor, as he clutched the roll of packing tape and I nothing but the sweat on my palms. My lips were desperate and his warm, and for a moment in my mind's eye I could see the photographs that I might someday frame and hang on the milk chocolate walls, and the candles we'd burn on the windowsills, and the clothes we'd shed, in sweet haste, on the hardwood floors.
The corners of the master bedroom will not be full of cobwebs, but instead of the conversations that we will have, whose particulars will slip away, but not the mad grinning feeling of two o'clock in the morning and souls touching.
I'll wake up when the light streams in and touches ever softly upon my cheek, and I'll look over, and there he'll be, a face full of daylight and not the twitch of an eyelash.
Maybe I'll take some action, then, and see what else he can sleep through.
astera at 8:44 p.m.