He crawled under the covers, arranged his pillows and shimmied down deep. Lying on his back, his hands unconsciously reached along his middle, from thighs to nipples and then she whispered:
It's not something you need to worry about.
What's not? he asked.
That. All that. That stuff you worry so much about. The moss over the chiseled sculpture you want to be. 'Imperfection'. Whatever. He won't care.
No?
No. He really won't. I mean, how forgiving are you? How much do you look past? And you think He'll give two shits? C'mon, now. You spend time conjuring necks, shoulders, even a rogue shoulder hair and they're far from perfection. Your Him won't want anything that isn't you, right?
I suppose not. But He doesn't have a face.
Why would he? You don't know His face. Honey, you plop your current fancy onto His face and expect to call that home.
What's wrong with home? I like home. It's always at home that He's there.
I know. And that's where He's be, but if all you're working with is a him, you're putting up drywall before there's any structural support. Don't put him into Him.
This is what you come up with as I'm trying to fall asleep? Jeez...
C'mon now, D, you brought me. Clearly I need to be here.
So then I'm keeping myself up.
There is no keeping. You're not being kept up. You're just up. This is time we need to spend together.
Alright. So what else do you have for me?
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