Last night I was gathering laundry and grabbed the doorknob to check behind my bedroom door which I always leave open. Always except last weekend during my massage when I closed it just in case I__ got up to use the bathroom.
I was surprised by a gross, greasy film, and it took me a good second to realize it’d been smothered in massage oil when D__ opened the door. It’s been like that for a week; it just took me this long to notice. It’s a metaphor for something, I’m sure.
Also: Eww!
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In other (perhaps related) news, I’m fighting a slight cold which totally sucks because I have a date tonight (bumped up from Saturday) and I’m not sure how I feel about following germ protocol if things “go well”. Once upon a time, I’d warn the girl and ask outright, but I feel like I’ve outgrown having meta conversations about the kiss. This is a little more serious — I don’t want to get her sick. But asking permission makes me seem less confident and too detached. It’s cool if you don’t want to, sure. I’m not going to kill myself or anything. But let’s not fool ourselves about how much I want it.
Thanks for sharing. Share is caring after all.