The Hoodie He Left on My Chair

The hoodie was gray, too big, and still smelled like his cheap soap. He was twenty-five, slim enough that the sleeves ate his hands. I was twenty-four. We had spent one night that we both called an accident and then spent a week pretending accidents did not have aftermaths.

I wore it to sleep. I told myself that was laundry, not longing. On Thursday he texted: I think I left a hoodie. I said yes. He said I can grab it tonight. I said okay, as if okay were a small word.

He arrived in a t-shirt, which meant he had planned to need the hoodie or planned not to. He stood in my doorway looking at me wearing it and laughed once, soft. “Yeah,” he said. “That's mine.”

“You can take it.”

“In a minute.” He stepped inside, shut the door, and kissed me like the week had been a held breath. The hoodie came off my shoulders and onto the floor. He was all collarbones and heat. I got my mouth on his throat and he made the same broken sound from the first night, which is how I knew I had not invented it.

We did not bother with the couch. On the bed he asked if I wanted him the way we had done it before. I said yes. He was careful, then less careful when I pulled him closer. When he pushed inside I held his skinny hips and breathed until the stretch turned into a rhythm. The city went on outside. I came with his hand on me. He followed with his face in the hoodie we had abandoned, which felt like a joke only we would get.

After, he did not take the hoodie. He put it back on my chair, neat, and said, “I'll forget it again on purpose.” I let him. Some things you return. Some things you leave so you have a reason to knock.