The Believing Kind
He’s the kind of guy who uses an old fashioned shaving kit without irony or pretension. He likes the feel of it in his hand, the weight of it. He likes the ritual involved. He likes splashing a little water in the mug, using the brush to whip the shaving soap into foam, smoothing it across his skin. He likes the slippery waxed paper packets the blades come wrapped in, the bone-and-brass handle to the razor and the small sound it makes when he snaps a fresh blade into place. I love the smoothness of his skin and the salty-warm scent his shaving soap leaves behind. I love to press my face into his neck and breathe deep, touching my teeth and tongue lightly to his flesh. I will never have to miss him because he will never go.
He’s the kind of guy who knows how to play darts and doesn’t mind teaching you. He can make you feel good about how bad you are. He’ll let the dart roll in his hand and down his fingers to rest in the exact right spot, raise his arm and let fly in a single smooth motion, not noticing or caring where the dart lands, which is pretty much always exactly where he wants it to go. He doesn’t mind losing if it means that you win. “The secret is, there is no secret,” he’ll say. “You have to stop trying. If you try, you tense up and the dart goes bad. Just relax and let the dart go where it wants to go.”
He’s the kind of guy who knows just about everything there is to know about some singular subject, and at least a little bit about most everything else, yet is still eager to get your opinion on everything. He likes to change your mind, and likes for you to change his. He’s aware that his family, his upbringing, his entire life, form biases that shape his thoughts and his views on the world, and he likes tries to control for them by self-awareness and sheer force of will. He carves out his own space in the world, and he leaves more than a little space for me.
He’s the kind of guy who likes to sing to me, and likes for me to sing to him. His voice isn’t much but then neither is mine. It doesn’t matter. The sound of us doesn’t matter. What matters is the heart behind it, the love. What matters is the way he will slip behind me as I do the dishes or read the paper or fold the laundry, the way he will bury his hands in my hair and brush his lips softly against the back of my neck.
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[...] medrawt put an intriguing blog post on The Believing KindHere’s a quick excerptHe likes the feel of it in his hand, the weight of it. He likes the ritual involved. He likes splashing a little water in the mug, using the brush to whip the shaving soap into foam, smoothing it across his skin. … Published by Cynthia Lugo on Thu, 07 May 2009 12:20:05 -0700 Blog : http://elephantwords.co.uk/ Url : http://elephantwords.co.uk/2009/05/07/the-believing-kind/ (Ranked #23) [...]