I've had dresses hanging in my room for a few days. They are hanging across the front of my bookcase. There's silky slender blue ballgowns. There's a crazy patterned black and white knee-length go-go dress. There's strapless cocktail dresses and beautiful embroidered full ballgowns.
As I look across my room, I've got sultry red candles and reed diffusers. I have lotions and high heels. Yesterday's discarded clothes including underthings and tailored pants... fitted shirts and bits of jewelry. There's mascara and foundation and lip gloss.
One item doesn't go with this theme... a burly chocolate-colored retro-style motorcycle jacket.
It's awesome. It's not mine. But I really wouldn't mind if it hung there for days and days. The leather is thick. The zippers make a deep scratching zzzzzzz. It smells of metal and cologne and hide. And seeing it there among my dresses makes me smile. It's comforting in a way... like being wrapped up in a man's arms. Like feeling his scratchy face on yours and hearing his broad footsteps cross the floor.
I miss all that.
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