Our electronic clock doesn’t emit a sound and I find it quite disturbing, so I tap my finger on the headboard, smothering my face in the pillow and sighing. I hear the quietest rustle and raise my head to look at Thom, hoping it’s the sign of him waking up, but his eyes are shut and his breathing is even, still.
I shift in bed and face him, propping on the elbow and resolving to stay like that until he wakes up – surely one can spend the eternity looking at him. But soon enough I want to trace his features with my fingers and at the lightest touch he groans slightly and turns away from me, pulling the blanket around his shoulders. I sigh and turn on my back, closing my eyes and cursing myself for being an early bird. When the idea of staying in bed becomes unbearable I get up and go to the bathroom on my sleepy legs.
Inside I take a shower and brush my teeth – slowly and with much thought, however the time is elastic and I’m able to waste only half an hour. I stare in the mirror, remembering in the back of my mind that time when somebody told me that if you put the two mirrors opposite each other and look into one of them you could see eternity. With nothing better to do, I open the cabinet and rummage inside, looking for the smaller mirror, until I find a small piece of paper. Already giddy and smiling, I brush the hair out of my eyes and unfold it to read the familiar handwriting.
I stole your t-shirt when I went away to college. You know, the one you wouldn’t take off all the time? I was afraid to even put it on, ‘cause I didn’t want it to lose your smell. And I remember the day when I was going away and you came by, annoyed and cranky, and ranted that it was the worst day ever. When I asked why, ready for your teary embrace and whines for me to stay, you said that you couldn’t find your bloody shirt. I was ready to slap you.
I laugh and rub the back of my neck, folding the note neatly so I could put it away and save it later. Then I rummage the cabinet again, in case there’s something else, but this time there’s no luck. I have plenty of those now – we leave the notes for each other all around the house and then stumble into them – days, weeks, and months later. Sometimes a Polaroid shot is attached to it; last week I was happy to find one underneath our rug, the note attached to it yellowish with time.
I return to the bedroom quickly, trying to avoid the creaking floorboards, but it’s meaningless, because by the time I’m in the bedroom I hear Thom’s quiet growling. I smile and paddle to the bed, lying down on my side. He growls a bit louder and takes a second pillow – my pillow – and places it on his head.
I smile and put my arm around him, turning him over and taking the pillow away from him and he opens his eyes a little to look at me sleepily.
“What?”
He clears his throat and yawns, resting on his back and still looking at me.
“Nothing, I just found a note from you,” I say, showing him the paper and flicking his nose with it.
“Good boy,” he says, already turning away, “Go get a cookie from a jar. Smell it and put it back.”
“Whatever did you do with my shirt?”
“I wore it on my first date with that guy…”
“Yeah, right,” I laugh, nuzzling close and blowing into his ear – he twitches slightly, “It’s too long for you, it’d be around your knees probably.”
“You know, the difference in our heights is not that significant.”
“We’ll argue about that in the span of the future 30 years. Now, what’d you do with my shirt?”
“Hand-made boxers…”
“Quit taking the piss,” I laugh, kissing him slowly.
“I took the sewing course, y’know,” he mumbles into my mouth, smiling.
“Yes, yes…are you ready?”
“I was born ready.”
“So, the truth is?”
“Top shelf, to the far left, underneath the old pair of jeans,” he says, sighing and pulling the blanket tighter around himself as I jump up and run to our closet. I find it in the exact spot – washed out and too small and cover my mouth, smiling. I take off my shirt and put it on instead, comfortable in the old material.
“It’s probably good for me too now,” I hear Thom say, “I might wear even. A proper vintage thing, what d’you think?”
“Well,” I say, coming back to bed and hovering over him, “You’ll have to steal it again.”
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