nonissue

At this point, I like him.  LIKE like him.  It's another one of those moo points, after all; he's moving away in less than two weeks, and not moving to Arizona or Wisconsin or any other state that terrifies me, he's moving overseas, he'll be there two years, there is no me for him, there is no he for me, he represents a nonissue in my mind, which is perhaps why I like like him.  Why I hug the memories of him close, and refuse to say a fucking word to him about how I feel.  There isn't any pressure for me.  I don't yearn to open my heart to him, to urp out the Feelings (with the all-important capital F) onto his possibly-aghast ears.  I just know I like him now.  Maybe it's because I know there's no potential.  Maybe because I feel so comfortable with him.  I don't know him that well yet I know him so well.  He does strange and wonderful things to me, and I like that too.  I like the way he smells.  Just the sound of his voice in my ear can make me curl up and hold out my hands.

Another nonissue, because my mouth exploded.  Figuratively, of course.  I've not had a cold sore for years, but after he left, after my stepmother appeared, so did a rash of fever blisters: my mouth is swollen and sore, and it's ridick.  I take the drugs, I smear the ointment, I swallow Lysine.  I don't think it's going to clear up for any last flings.  Even that is okay with me.  Maybe my mouth made it safe.

My stepmother bought me a Shark.  This is endearing and also ridiculous.  I live now in a tiny house with no carpet; the floors in every room but the kitchen are beautiful, glossy hardwood, and the kitchen is tile-inspired lino.  I bought a Swiffer on impulse, and was oh so glad I did, as Daisy took to the Swiffer like pigs to mud, and has Swiffed and mopped more times here than she has in all my cheesey memory.  Yesterday, when Elaine and I went to Costco (she paid for my food; wish I'd thrown a bag of catfood in there), she pointed out the Shark, a steam-powered Swiffer.  I was more enamored of the Shark vacuum, but I don't need a vacuum here.  I don't really need a Shark steam-powered mop, either, but it was pretty amazing of her to buy me an $80 cleaning tool.  I was nonplussed but so touched, as well.  She can buy me so little that I WANT; I like toys and colorful things and books and thrifted clothes, and my tastes have not yet coincided with any of my California adults.  But still: it reminded me of when I visited, years ago, and she went into my suitcase, took out my blue down vest, and mended the pockets; then she replaced the vest and I found it, a week later, and was deeply moved.  I think I might have shed a tear or two, which sounds tossaway, but isn't; I held the vest in my hands and I stared at it, and smiled, and my chest hitched, and I thought: She does love me.  It does not look like my love, or love I imagine, but it is love, and here in my hands I hold proof.  Because the vest was probably anathema to her.  It is (1) ancient, (2) thrifted, (3) ugly, and (4) best suited to a 22-year-old ski bum.  But I love it.  She would have liked to throw it away.  Instead she mended it because it is important to me.