Here for It Or, How to Save Your Soul in America; Essays - R. Eric Thomas Page 0,69
And besides, I didn’t want to cuddle with him. Just his blanket.
I excused myself to the bathroom. He had a peach candle burning in there that smelled just like an actual peach. It was stunning! It wasn’t one of those candles that smells like a peach Jolly Rancher or peach body lotion. It smelled like biting into that perfect peach you get on that first truly warm day after a long, hard winter. The peach that reminds you, as juices run down your hand, that being alive is generally a good and pleasant thing and you should keep doing it.
I tried to find a label on the candle but it had none. So chic! I sniffed the air and realized the peach was mingling with another smell. Was it just clean in there or did he have an air freshener? Or was it the expensive basil soap he had by the sink? I was so overwhelmed by this olfactory experience that I forgot to snoop through his cabinet.
I finished washing my hands and decided that I was not leaving this apartment without getting what I came for: the names of all his products. I licked my lips like a movie heroine who is trying to project her steely determination. I realized that even my lips smelled good. What flavor Burt’s Bees was he using? This was like a gay Wonka Factory. I stepped out. Try to be casual, keep it chill, Eric. Don’t frighten him; he’s a nurse, so he probably has access to sedatives.
I strolled into the living room and ran my hand along the arm of the sofa. “Nice apartment you have here…” My mind immediately filled in Be a shame if someone trashed it! because I am apparently possessed by a stereotypical movie mob thug. I shook my head; threats were probably not a good look.
“Say, what flavor of lip balm do you use?”
He looked at me quizzically as if it’s weird to just know that information. I maintain that that is not weird information to carry around in your head. I will not defend this point.
He fished into his pocket and took the tube out. “Pomegranate?”
Why is there a question mark? I wondered. Can you read? This is going to take all night.
“Cool,” I replied. “Nice. Good.” Yup, keep it to one syllable, my friend. Lure him in. I grabbed my coat. “I should be going. Oh! Say! That’s a nice candle. I want to buy one for my…girlfriend? No. Sorry, for myself. Masculinity is a prison, amiright? What flavor is it?”
He cocked his head. “Peach?” I was probably going to resort to violence.
“Nice. Cool. Do you know where you got it?”
“Yankee Candle?” Was everything in this room a surprise to him?
“And, haha, this is weird, but is there another air freshener you have going? It just smells really good. Also, where did you get that shirt? Also, that comforter, is it a duvet cover or just a comforter? What’s the brand? Do you mind if I take a photo of the tag so I can remember? I’m just going to go take a photo.”
It wasn’t pretty but I got it all out of him. And I marched off into the perfect evening with a shopping list and a spring in my step. That weekend, I went out to IKEA and to Bed Bath & Beyond and to Target and bought it all—from the air freshener to the body spray to the Burt’s Bees lip balm that made his lips seem less like a stranger’s. Everything. Everything but the comforter. The comforter I couldn’t find. You’ve heard of spring cleaning? This was fall hoarding.
* * *
—
When Jay moved out, he, naturally, took all his stuff with him. And the empty spaces, where his artwork or his favorite chair used to be, haunted me. For months after he left, I would wake up every morning and refuse to get out of bed until I’d managed to convince myself not to get the lyrics to “Where Do Broken Hearts Go” tattooed on my body that day. Like, I was sad in so many creative ways.
BRAIN: Okay, what are we not going to do today?
ME: Eat healthily.
BRAIN: What else?
ME: Go to a tattoo parlor…
BRAIN: That’s right.
ME: But—
BRAIN: No.
ME: But the lyrics are so evocative!
BRAIN: You’re going to regret it in, like, a week.
ME: You don’t know my life.
BRAIN: Girl, I am serious right now. You can’t get that song tattooed on your body.