I didn’t know how to place it, this feeling. I felt deeply disgusted at myself and felt a dark cloud of shame descend. I tried to shake it off like a dog trying to get dry, but it hung around. It came from the inside, after all.
When you recall the past, there are a lot of gaps that just seem to be blurry washed out watercolour except for very specific moments. Moments that probably lasted a handful of minutes at most but I remember them crystal clear.
The way Lina came home late one night in Tromsø. She had been out dancing with her swing group. We had a proper fight before she left, and we never did that. If anything we were always too considerate to each other, like two gentlemen encouraging the other to board a lifeboat aboard a rapidly sinking ship.
Well, we fought and she left without even putting her coat on, her eyes brimming with tears and cheeks a hot pink, I went to bed stewing in anger and regret.
I was drifting in and out of sleep when she came back. Quiet, like a shadow she changed into her pajamas and came to bed. She lay close, careful not to wake me but upon seeing me stir she came closer and wrapped me around her like a cashmere blanket (I guess I’m a pretty soft guy), letting me know in no small terms that she needed me, at least in that very moment. I gathered her in my arms in return and ran my fingers through her fake brown hair. No matter how long she grew it, my fingers would always ran through them too fast. We finally fell asleep with a long exhale.