Matrimony Homies

6: Theme (Loren)

My head is going to explode. It's pounding as though some tiny beast is in there with a jackhammer. Using one hand, I massage my forehead while squeezing my eyes closed. Fuck. I'm not ready for this conversation. To see HIM. Taking three deep belly breaths, I push my body away from the front door where my back has been resting. Placing my computer bag near the kitchen table, I make my way to the bathroom. Flipping on the shower, I add about a dozen drops of lavender essential oil to a sponge, placing the sponge on the shower floor, well away from the spray. The scent will release in the steam, maybe helping me relax. Between today's events and tonight's virtual video meeting, I'm wiped out. Every muscle in my body is tense. Stripping off my work clothes, I add them to the laundry basket next to my dresser.

The makeup removal and face washing process take almost no time at all, and I soothe my skin with a layer of moisturiser.

Quickly pinning up my hair in a haphazard fashion, I climb beneath the hot spray, the steam opening my pores – and my soul. The water washes away much of the stress of the day, and I utilise my night time scented shower gel to physically scrub off the verbal vomit that had been spewn during a poorly-timed chance encounter at the end of the day. As I slough off the emotions and the dirt, I find myself humming Bob Dylan's 'Just Like a Woman' to myself before belting out the chorus.

Most of the time, I love living alone. No one to tell me what, when, or how to do something. But it's nights like this that the single life wears on me. Wouldn't it be lovely to come home to someone who just wants to hold me? Someone to let me cry on his shoulder? Someone who would know what I needed without being told?

A small smile drifts across my face. That's not how it works, silly. On a typical Monday night, I'm well aware that I am truly, deeply content. All of my dreams have come true. After all, I own my own business in a field dominated by men. I've got a large circle of friends on whom I can call whenever I want a night out on the town. The life I've built is one of which I'm quite proud.

But sometimes...

Hush. You live a fabulous life.

Twisting off the shower, I towel off and pad naked to my bedroom where I withdraw a tie-dyed knit loungewear set from my wardrobe. The soft cotton slips smoothly over my skin, and I sincerely wish I could wear clothes this comfortable every second of every day. It's so cosy. Glancing at the clock on the bedside table, I wince as I realise I've only got five minutes before the appointed time of my execution.

Being a bit dramatic there, Loren?

He pretends he's a nice boy, but I know he's not.

Breathe. It's fine. Do the meet, get business done, and then you can curl up with that new book before bedtime.

Returning to the kitchen, I withdraw a bowl of freshly cut mixed fruit and a packet of cheese wrapped in beeswax paper. Thank goodness I had taken the time this weekend to do a little light meal prep. From a drawer, I snag a knife and fork before settling at the kitchen table.

Grasping my computer bag, I extract my laptop and power cord, plugging in and powering up the device. Sadly, it's only seconds after I sign in that the 'Incoming FaceTime Call' starts flashing. Biting my lip, I stare at the photo of him on my screen. It's a picture of the two of us at the January 2012 Take Me Home show in Sheffield. His arm is slung around my shoulders, and I'm leaning into him.

Fuck. I'm not ready for this.

Answering the call, I situate myself more comfortably in the chair by drawing my right foot onto the seat of the chair and resting my chin on my knee.

His face pops up, and for a moment I'm lost in it, examining the ways it has changed since the picture on my computer. When we'd been kids, he'd been dorky and awkward. His only saving grace were those dimples. His curls, unruly back in the day, now artfully frame his face. The scruff on his face obscures the contour of his upper lip. With a shudder, I consider what it might feel like to have those bristles tickling my skin.