Me: brushes my skin out of Adam’s hair.
Me: “You got some of my skin in your hair.”
Adam: “It’s called love.”
For years I apologised about my skin getting on others, getting on surfaces. Even though I said I wouldn’t, I still do.
Every time I go to toilet at work, I wipe up my skin off the floor. I sweep it up with my tram ticket, like a little mouse sweeping up spilt flour in a little flour mill.
I’m still so self conscious of leaving myself behind.
But this man, he doesn’t mind if I leave myself behind on him.
How did I get so lucky? How did something so awkward and intimate not phase this man?
He still says no more sorries. I’m getting there.