We have a tradition...
I can't say which of us started it - mostly because for different reasons it is something we'd both do- but it has become an unspoken and reflexive action. We dress each other as a means of saying goodbye. I say "dress" to describe it, but it feels, as most words feel, inadequate to describe the sentiment and ritual itself... but it does give the idea. We end the rite with the person leaving fully dressed, though sometimes with a rumpled shirt by the time we share parting glances. It begins with a shared shower, but sometimes in the interest of time this is done separately. Each limb is surreptitiously and reverently washed, every bit of skin caressed by Lathered loofah and the warmth of soapy palms. There is much holding and embraces, awkward smiles and blushing, as the spray of the shower blurs visibility. We dry each other, with our own towels, lying to ourselves that we do so to the parts that would ordinarily be hard to reach: the middle of a back, nape of a neck. Surprisingly we manoeuvre from bathroom to bedchamber, a tangle of arms still patting the acreage of each others skin dry. It is often at this point that one of us - invariably the one most likely leaving later or being left behind - falls back into the bed, at turns reconciling ourself to the impending parting, while vainly hoping to pose as inviting enough to tempt the other into forgoing plans. The one with the deadline (and this time it is he), would hurriedly if a bit jerkily get dressed off to the side, often deeply aware of being watched, and yet just as often steeling themself against returning the gaze lest resolve disappears. Having lost this last stand, the other would move out of bed, clothes for their departure or something to accompany the other to the bus stop being picked and laid out before. This round, I was the one standing denuded before him, willing my hands to my sides rather than to subconsciously attempt to shade the bits of my body I am not comfortable with. He'd start with boxers, slowly drawn up my legs, thumbs in the waistline dragging parallel lines up my flesh, the elastics taking the fabric in their trails wake. Just before it settles on my hips, he plants a quick kiss on my thigh, a process is repeated with each article of clothing, caresses topped off with a kiss to an area being covered up. All the while, a look of awe laced with sadness emanates from the twin depths of his eyes. Now clothed, we stand face to face in a tight embrace, which he invariably breaks to look at me quizzically. Grudgingly I nod, giving the permission which we both know is for me a frightening prospect. He lifts me. What had begun as a taste of own medicine (as I have on numerous occasions lifted others easily), became tentatively Canon to our routine. Holding me aloft, swaying gently with me. Unhooking my legs, the action is reversed, and I hold him while his legs are wrapped around me. Throughout this exchange, soft words of affection are traded, with all the gravity of a jurors verdict. It is a slow uncoupling as we separate, our hands the last things to become disjoined. We say no actual goodbye, but a lingering gaze into each others eyes as we express love in our awkward "get there safely" or "I miss you already".
I can't say which of us started it - mostly because for different reasons it is something we'd both do- but it has become an unspoken and reflexive action. We dress each other as a means of saying goodbye. I say "dress" to describe it, but it feels, as most words feel, inadequate to describe the sentiment and ritual itself... but it does give the idea. We end the rite with the person leaving fully dressed, though sometimes with a rumpled shirt by the time we share parting glances. It begins with a shared shower, but sometimes in the interest of time this is done separately. Each limb is surreptitiously and reverently washed, every bit of skin caressed by Lathered loofah and the warmth of soapy palms. There is much holding and embraces, awkward smiles and blushing, as the spray of the shower blurs visibility. We dry each other, with our own towels, lying to ourselves that we do so to the parts that would ordinarily be hard to reach: the middle of a back, nape of a neck. Surprisingly we manoeuvre from bathroom to bedchamber, a tangle of arms still patting the acreage of each others skin dry. It is often at this point that one of us - invariably the one most likely leaving later or being left behind - falls back into the bed, at turns reconciling ourself to the impending parting, while vainly hoping to pose as inviting enough to tempt the other into forgoing plans. The one with the deadline (and this time it is he), would hurriedly if a bit jerkily get dressed off to the side, often deeply aware of being watched, and yet just as often steeling themself against returning the gaze lest resolve disappears. Having lost this last stand, the other would move out of bed, clothes for their departure or something to accompany the other to the bus stop being picked and laid out before. This round, I was the one standing denuded before him, willing my hands to my sides rather than to subconsciously attempt to shade the bits of my body I am not comfortable with. He'd start with boxers, slowly drawn up my legs, thumbs in the waistline dragging parallel lines up my flesh, the elastics taking the fabric in their trails wake. Just before it settles on my hips, he plants a quick kiss on my thigh, a process is repeated with each article of clothing, caresses topped off with a kiss to an area being covered up. All the while, a look of awe laced with sadness emanates from the twin depths of his eyes. Now clothed, we stand face to face in a tight embrace, which he invariably breaks to look at me quizzically. Grudgingly I nod, giving the permission which we both know is for me a frightening prospect. He lifts me. What had begun as a taste of own medicine (as I have on numerous occasions lifted others easily), became tentatively Canon to our routine. Holding me aloft, swaying gently with me. Unhooking my legs, the action is reversed, and I hold him while his legs are wrapped around me. Throughout this exchange, soft words of affection are traded, with all the gravity of a jurors verdict. It is a slow uncoupling as we separate, our hands the last things to become disjoined. We say no actual goodbye, but a lingering gaze into each others eyes as we express love in our awkward "get there safely" or "I miss you already".
We have a tradition...
I can't say which of us started it...but we live for when it becomes obsolete
I can't say which of us started it...but we live for when it becomes obsolete
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