I took a picture of the floor of his room when I woke up. He didn’t hear, of course, health issues and all. The click was heard by me alone. My smile hidden from his sleepy eyes.

It was perfectly set there on the ground underneath his ironing board, upon which the towel I used to cover myself while I scurried like a mouse to the bathroom late at night.

The image: of workboots; covered in plaster and paint and the ugg boots; cosy and warm. Two sides of him that I’ve seen and have come to love on their own and as a package. Sitting side by side, I found them comforting and illuminating, like an early morning epiphany.

He worked hard and he was soft. I found this in the way he touched my body and kissed my lips. I found this in the way he listened to me speak about how I felt and what I thought and what I longed for. I found this in the way he turned towards the discomfort of talking of his feelings. I found this in his actions and I found this in his words.

I found this in myself. I’d always hoped to find it in someone else.


One thought on “Juxtaposition.

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