She went to take a shower right after I came out. It was 8:16 am. It was a bright Spring morning but cold enough that you felt the dry air pinch you in those desperate seconds between the warmth of the duvet and the embrace of the water.
She didn't say anything as she passed me on her way out of my room. She just smiled and closed the bathroom door quietly.
She had made the bed. Her clothes were neatly laid out on it. I closed the door to my room and put my office clothes on the bed next to hers. And couldn't help but I look at her clothes. I'll never forget how different they were, those two sets of clothes lying there without bodies to fill them.
All her clothes had gentle curves. Mine were all straight lines. Her shirt was smaller than my shirt. Her jeans were bluer than my jeans. All her clothes were soft, all my clothes were taut. Everything was soft.
My belt was heavy with a thick metal buckle. Her's was braided, woven.
My shoes were size 10. Her shoes were zip-ups.
My socks were black. Her's were gentle pink with sky-blue polka dots.
We had used the same soap but she still smelled better than me when she walked into my room, draped in a damp towel.
I wore cologne and she wore laughter.
"Can you, like, wait outside please?" she said. "I need to change."
The silence of an empty kitchen reminded me what a gift those mornings were. Mornings spent together.
