The sheets smelled like cigarette smoke and pot. They smelled like Frank. The scent was on his clothes, but stronger near his ear and hairline where I had breathed deep and then ran my cheek along his. He had shaved that day, his skin smooth and unmarred, just the patch on his chin and thin line across his lip remained. But I couldn’t smell the soap, only the cigarette smoke and pot. It was his scent, the one I would associate with him, with his touch and taste, with sex.
What are you doing, he had asked, just got home from….and some indistinct explanation followed. I was half asleep, my sinus hurt, and I couldn’t concentrate as usual. So I said breathless and low, come see me. He was almost timid in reply, incredulous when he said, really? Funny thing about Frank, he always kissed me goodbye then he’d promise to call and I’d ask when. And he wouldn’t always call.
And I had laughed deeply at the question he asked. Then I turn and catch his stare time after time. Funny thing, attraction, it holds great weight against age. Yes, I knew he was young, but hadn’t realized there would be almost ten years between us. His reply had been that it shouldn’t matter, age. Those words held infinite weight. Shouldn’t matter for what?
That first weekend I was very busy but he called a day early and I had sought him out in my free time but not found him. And every other day since, we’d seen each other – so far. Things were still new. And I knew right he wouldn't be the one for me, not ultimately and that we had little in common But we laughed and touched and it was what I need right then and even now perhaps. And his kiss goodbye was gentle and sweet, almost like something more, almost.
