Thursday, June 14, 2012
Cameron, he had on these latex gloves. Walking around the apartment with his beard braided into a dragon point, commenting on the housewares that we should have bought at the Abbot Street garage sale last Saturday. The gloves were a new thing he was trying. Seeing if he could be spared germs this month during the transitional period between seasons. He promised he wouldn’t touch me with them on but it got to the point where I actually didn’t mind the feel of them.
The first time he brushed up against my arm by accident because he was reaching for the tea pot to water the daisies by the window. I thought it was weird, but then I found myself requesting him to touch me with them. Medicinal. Clinical, really. He wanted to wash me while wearing them.
We sat in the tub, too small for the both of us to fit comfortably, and he squeezed suds and water onto my neck, onto my back. It wasn’t particularly detailed touching. He just had on the gloves making contact with my skin as if he hadn’t.
I don’t know if he was actually trying to prevent illness—I had a feeling he was trying to avoid making an imprint of any kind, anywhere.