A Touch Of (and For) Distress

Dearest Rachel –

In fairness, you were never much for cuddling, to speak of. In your mind, you had no desire to be treated like a teddy bear or a hugging pillow, and with that in mind, you chose to give me my space in turn, especially at night (assuming, not incorrectly, that such constant close contact would, in particular, distract from my needed sleep – an application of the golden rule on your part). That sort of close contact, that skinship, was generally considered by you to be prelude and postlude to other, more intimate activities. As a result, we had ourselves a bed large enough that such contact wouldn’t occur unless it was intentional, a request or invitation toward that end, and it worked out for us, even if we never actually spelled it out in so many words.

That having been said, you weren’t averse to close contact in other contexts. When we would sit together on the couch watching television, you would often nestle against me, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. Likewise, barring physical barriers such as armrests and such, you would lean against me in any theater setting. There was no need for me to pull the time-honored boyfriend stunt of pretending to yawn so as to put my arm around you; you were more than happy to rest against me of your own volition. To be sure, particularly at home, we wouldn’t necessarily share the same seating, so you or I would be occupied with other activities while watching something – I had my rocker/recliner, and you would play with your computer on the couch. As a result, snuggling up to each other was more the exception rather than the rule (with the notable – and somewhat ironic – exception of church, where it has been noted to me by many others how affectionate you were toward me in public. Not, I might add, with opprobrium, but admiration – I know of at least one man whose new wife observed us and said “I have got to get to know that woman,” in reference to you and your greeting to me as I joined you before a certain service started. Pity you two barely got the chance).

Additionally, you could often sense when I needed just that little bit more affection, even in situations where you wouldn’t normally need or want any yourself. The occasional (albeit rare) sleepless night, or nightmare, would prompt you to reach out to me (if you were aware of it – sometimes, you were too tired to notice, and that’s more than fair); a reassurance that “I’m here, honey, and I love you, no matter what you’re going through.” Last night – or rather this morning, since that’s really when dreams happen – was one of those times where you might’ve reached out to me, or I might’ve reached out to you upon waking, and you would’ve at least accepted it.

As an aside, for all that I try to cling onto you as a pleasant ghost of my past, it bothers and annoys me that I also have a malevolent spirit of the past to haunt me who has a tendency to overshadow you. I know that I never have to deal with Mohinder in real life again, in large part thanks to you and your parents, but every so often, he still shows up in my dreams, and absolutely spoils them.

Indeed, I think my imagination has turned him into something of a monster. The situation my mind conjured up bestowed upon him a reaction that would’ve been crueler than he really was in life. Not that he wasn’t – I still have more audio of him that I do of you (more’s the pity) because I was trying to prove to others (and confirm for myself) that his hours-long tirades at me were neither my imagination nor exaggeration. At some point, I intend to correct that – if ever I get bored of making pictures of you (which at the moment hardly seems likely, but there are only so many pictures of you and resultant poses), there are apparently AI programs that can do likewise for sound using only a handful of voice samples. It would be so good to hear you speak again.

But back to the dream, which focused on, of all things, a coffee mug on my desk, bearing the legend “Randy L—— is a stupid head.” Yes, the words were just that childish. Go figure. Now, the real Mohinder would likely not even have noticed the mug, despite the fact that I was one of the few in the office who didn’t drink coffee, and therefore didn’t have a mug of my own. That, or he would’ve chuckled at the childish scrawl and statement upon it, or at least wonder aloud why on earth I would keep such an artifact on my desk; did I lose a bet or something?

But as it was, dream Mohinder clearly glanced at the mug, and then at me, and simply nodded silently. it was a slight gesture, but enough for me to see that he was giving his assent – or at least agreement – to the sentiment expressed upon the mug.

That little nod and contemptuous look was enough to even send my dream self into the archive room, where I could find some measure of cathartic release by pulling old records and throwing them into a hopper to be shredded or otherwise destroyed. It was a therapeutic experience in real life, and it seems my subconscious saw it as a means of escape in its own right.

But it could only do so much, and in any event, dreams eventually fade. It wasn’t long before I found myself lying in bed, half-awake, trying to process what I had just experienced. When I have dreams about my old job, I try to tell myself I don’t work for that man anymore; I’m not beholden to his disdain or hostility. But it still gets under my skin, and it’s a moment in which I would roll over a bit to you and, at the very least, give you a kiss on the cheek, to let you know (even in your sleep) how glad I was that you were there, and how you felt about me, and how that could overwhelm the worst of my nightmares.

But, despite the fact that I have a handful of Christmas gifts still lying on my bed (for me to go over and determine whether I might want to wear them on a given day), the weight on your side of the bed isn’t enough to fool me into thinking you’re there. Even if it were, I’d realize otherwise as soon as I made a move toward ‘you,’ and heard the crinkle of rustling plastic (some of the clothes are still wrapped in the transparent bags they were shipped in). And while it isn’t a nightmare anymore to wake up to an otherwise empty bed, it’s never a pleasant realization.

Still, would it do your soul any good for me to repeat how much – and detail why – I miss you? Because I do.