I’ve come to learn your scent and now wear it like a second skin

You ask me again if I’m sure that I want to go with you to your home in Lodi instead of going back to my place. I look at you, then hold your gaze: I want to, and that’s the end of it. I’m only worried about you driving back so late because it’s a forty-minute drive to my apartment, then another forty-minute ride on your way home. You assure me that it’s fine, even if we just got off a four-hour train ride, a whole day of walking around in the summer heat, and a morning of love. I believe you, so we chase the train that’s about to leave, the one passing through your city.

When we arrive at your apartment, I see, feel, hear, and smell you, and it feels like home to me. The scent of wood is a lingering perfume, and I’m used to it now. I drop my bags and sit on the sofa when you ask me what I want for dinner. You order through the phone and tell them you’ll pick it up once it’s ready and walk to the kitchen. Here, I see something different: I see a bottle of dishwashing liquid, a sponge, and a rice cooker. I can’t contain my excitement. I jump in joy and kiss you vigorously on the cheeks and on the lips. Let me explain why.

You have a dishwasher, and you often order food. At home, I wash the homeware with a sponge and dishwashing liquid, and I eat homemade meals that either I or my mom cooked. To see that you have these two mundane objects in your space makes me feel close to a kind of upbringing I want to share with you in the life we are building. It feels like a validation, a warm welcome of us two into the life we desire to live.

Then, you dress up to pick up the ordered food. You tell me not to clean the tupperware lid in the sink or the white blotches around it while you’re away. I say yes, and as soon as you close the door, I stand up and disobey you. I’ve seen the broom before near the bathroom, so I grab it and sweep the floor. I put all the loose papers I see on top of the coffee table back into the folder and rearrange your keys at your workstation. Then, I sweep away the spider crawling in the corner of the steps leading to your kitchen, and once all of that’s done, I stash the broom back into the utility closet. I go to the sink and begin to clean, and just as I’m about to wash away the soap, the door opens, and you catch me red-handed, doing the very chore you asked me not to.

I begin to laugh, and you start to look aghast playfully. We banter, exchanging lively words back and forth, until you ask me to sit down and eat. While I do, I look at you and think back to the recent weekend we’ve just had. We were in Trieste, a city you’ve frequented for work, and you told me it felt different now that we were together. The city you worked in felt like a foreign place you were willing to explore again as if it had been your first time. I told you I picked the city because I knew you loved being in and near the water. We couldn’t swim, yes, but in my defense, it was a port area, and there was water, so I thought it would be enough. You said being with me, anywhere, was enough. We looked at each other, briefly lost for words, and we smiled.

A lot happened to us during that weekend, an awakening we were even surprised to receive. We trusted ourselves once not to use protection, our first time ever, as we had never done it with anyone, and what washed over us was strong and indescribable. Every time we got passionate about the topics we talked about, we reclined again and bounced back from being preppy instead of snappy. Our conversations then weren’t even argumentative; they were just full of fire being spewed out of our mouths with no nearby wet cloth to exhaust it. And that was fine because I don’t think we’ve ever argued, as you’ve agreed before, but just exchanged ideas and opinions.

One dinner, we talked about work. I told you I imagined us working together in a studio and creative agency you would open and spearhead. I would act as an assistant, hustling through the boring administration and press work you would willingly and rather avoid. It sounded ideal: you would deliver the projects, and I would handle the rest. But then you told me about your previous freelance work experiences, about how much you cared about each and every project you took on, as opposed to your current job that gives you a video-editing task you can’t say no to, and from what I understood, it felt like you didn’t want to have your own studio and agency, that it wasn’t even part of your plan. I felt demoralized because I knew you had so much potential, that you could do so much more than being locked in an office, going through one project after another without completely loving what you do. But I didn’t want to say anything. I felt rejected by my own idea and help, and while I’m used to it, it hurt because it came from you.

On our way to finding an ice cream shop, now a habit because I know how much you love it after dinner, I walked so fast. You asked me if something was wrong, if it was something you said. I said everything was fine even when it wasn’t. I think it was the first time I lied to you. We continued walking, but the tension was evident and felt. I would tell you later on that I was just thinking and writing in my head, which was partly the truth, but the majority of it was because I felt dejected that the idea of us working together, me helping you grow and vice versa, would only be a dream of mine and never ours. We kept on walking until we saw the lighthouse at the port, the only one, and made our way there. When we reached the foot, we looked up. We both took the pictures, but I lingered and stared at it because the light above spoke to me. Amid the hovering storm, you’re the lightning that strikes not to electrocute but to provide a swift yet comforting beam in the middle of the night. When I looked at you again, the melancholy I felt from earlier evaporated, an invisible sea mist that would no longer come back. I held your gaze for as long as I could, hoping you would understand the depth of love I felt for you without saying it out loud.

We’re finished with dinner now. Our naked skins touch, and we make love. After a while, we put our clothes back on because you’re driving me back to Monza, the city where I live. It’s roughly a forty-minute drive, and I always feel that I’m causing an inconvenience to you. Not once did I forget to tell you this, and not once did you forget to contest it. We’ve just entered the highway when you decide to play a Rod Stewart song. You’ve told me about him – how his concert is one of your favorite events you’ve attended and the way his guttural voice plays an influential role in your music-filled life – because I said I didn’t know any of his songs. As soon as he starts singing, his voice filling up the solemnity of the two-seater car, it rings familiar to me. It reminds me of the nights my family would drive back home from a day out, my dad playing soft love songs from the 80s as we cruised the highway. I would gaze outside, watching poles of warm-lit street lamps pass by. Back then, I thought of a life filled with contentment, one that needed not to be spoken but felt. Tonight, with you, as rock ballads and soft songs from the 80s play in the background, I feel exactly that.

I ask you if I can take over the playlist, and you willingly give me your phone to browse through the songs. I play True by Spandau Ballet, Nothing’s Gonna Stop Us Now by Starship, and Only You by Yazoo, to name a few. On our way to the drop-off point, I start jiving with the songs played, swaying my shoulders as I look at you. I wish I could paint to immortalize the smile you had the entire time. You briefly look at the road as you drive, then at me, and I only look at you and nothing and no one else. You park the car as we reach our destination but keep the music playing. We stare at each other for a moment, smiling, not saying a word. There’s an unseen weight in our gaze, a sense of finality. I’m not sure what yours is about, but to me, it is a feeling of commitment, one that is solid, stable, even endless; one that’s filled with devotion, admiration, respect, nurturing, lightness, and humor.

Then, inside your parked car, we kiss, and I catch your scent, similar to ocean and salt, the one I’ve come to learn and embed into my memory and now wear like a second skin, already tattooed all over me, lingering and lasting for infinite time.