I hated the drool, the warm string of it that followed when I pulled my hand away, the way wiping it on my pants somehow just made more of me wet, and I’d say Jesus Christ, Rupert, and he’d stand there with that enormous head, entirely comfortable with what he’d done to me. I’d be trying to find a dry patch of clothing and still reaching down to touch him, because of course I was, he was right there.
I knew I’d miss him someday, and sometimes I’d let myself feel a little of it before pushing it away, because he was still there and I could put my hand on him and there were other things to think about. Tomorrow could have the awful part. I kept giving it things without looking, another hello, another chance to complain about the state of my clothes, and I never thought much about how certain I was that I’d get to do it again.
It’s the drool I keep remembering, which I wouldn’t have expected, given the effort I put into avoiding it. I can still feel it between my fingers, the little recoil, checking my sleeve for somewhere I hadn’t already wiped my hand. It remains disgusting, even now that I’m apparently going to be sentimental about it.
I’ll miss it, and I’d still wipe it off, and I’m fairly sure another visit would go exactly the same way, me saying Jesus Christ, Rupert, while he leans into me and I keep one hand on his head, looking for somewhere to wipe the other.
