“I wish I was there, snuggled between your hairy monkey legs…”
“Mmm… me too,” said Meg. “Someday I won’t have this stupid curfew.”
We have this conversation often. Meg lives in a resident hotel, in a single room with its own bathroom and kitchenette. A double mattress on the floor is the living room/bedroom/den/party area. If you are friendly enough with Meg to be invited to her room, you get to sit on her bed.
Her linens, pillows and other bedding are hot pink. Powerpuff Girls pink. One of the blankets, probably a dollar-store special, was washed the wrong way, and now sheds hundreds of tiny pink lint balls. They are all over the inside of my work shirt. Every time I go to Meg’s for lunch, I roll around on her bed, then return to work and put on my work shirt. Its inner lining looks like a party of psychedelic bedbugs on heroin. A million of ’em, none moving. I will call her and say, “Dr T is staring at my tiny pink balls. Make him stop!” She giggles and blushes so hard I can see it through the phone, and threatens to throw away the comforter. But it’s there every time I come to visit. Every time I see a tiny pink ball, I smile because I know where it came from.
I told Meg I loved her a while back. Via text message. It’s true. As we’ve spent endless days sitting in her room, watching whatever’s on broadcast TV and passing the time, I’ve become quite fond of her soft smile, kind eyes, easy demeanor and loving touch. She is an easy woman to love.
After spending Saturday at Meg’s doing nothing more than taking naps and nibbling on day-old pizza, I awoke at home Sunday morning. I’d been dreaming of Meg, and rolled over to rest my arm on her hip. We fit together so nicely, and her bottom lines up perfectly. I fall asleep; my arm doesn’t.
She doesn’t have a ton of bedding, but she has The Monkey. A stuffed gorilla, it also fits me perfectly. I put him on my head like I’m giving him a piggyback ride, and his legs give excellent neck support for sleep and watching TV laying down.
Hairy monkey-leg jokes? I got a million of ’em. Tiny pink balls? Got a million of those, too. But I only have one Meg, and I cherish her.
Happy Valentines Day, Meg. I love you.