3
« on: February 11, 2016, 10:22:09 pm »
I played Scrabble Saturday and did pretty well. I won more games than I lost. I played a man who wears cardigans. It is strange when men wear cardigans and they aren’t Mr. Rogers. Mr. Rogers was able to pull that off because he’s smooth and awesome and teaches us important things. I miss Mr. Rogers. I would like to snuggle up next to Mr. Rogers while wearing his cardigan. I bet he smells like Brylcreem and Old Spice and pot roast. I would make Mr. Rogers a pot roast and I would do so while wearing a smart white apron with a lace hem I tied around my waist with a neat bow. I would even serve Mr. Rogers his delicious pot roast (grass fed) and fresh vegetables and mashed potatoes and I would bake him some kind of pie for dessert, probably apple, with a scoop of cold french vanilla ice cream or a thick slice of sharp cheddar cheese. If he came home from work and was tired I would make him a high ball or a martini even though I dont really know what a high ball is. It’s a drink, probably fancy. In my head it involves whiskey but it just sounds important, like, if you are an important and serious person you drink highballs. Mr. Rogers would be a good man to come home too, never raising his voice, always talking calmly, treating me nicely. When he would sit on the bench just inside the front door to take change his shoes, I would hold his impeccably shined Florsheim shoes against my chest, carefully undoing the laces. I’d slide each shoe off and roll off the sweaty socks. I’d massage his feet between my fingers and kiss his toes before sliding his favorite, soft slippers onto his feet. I would rest my cheek against his knee and he would hold his hand to my head and for a long time, each evening, we would sit like that, quietly, together. In our bedroom there would be two twin beds but they would be very close together because Mr. Rogers would want to hold my hand as we fell asleep, and most nights, every night really, Mr. Roger would slide over and pat the empty space next to him and say come join me and he’d say, “Won’t you be my neighbor,” and we’d laugh together at how clever so very clever he is. Mr. Rogers would never suggest getting a queen sized bed because, he would say, he’d rather share a smaller bed with me so we can always feel close and special to each other. He would say there should be no such thing as space where love is concerned and I would think that was the most romantic thing a man could ever say. I would lie in that twin bed with Mr. Rogers and he’d wear one of those white t-shirts and a pair of neatly hemmed pajama pants, probably with stripes because I like stripes. Mr. Rogers would love giving me what I like. He would always wear a white t-shirt beneath his dress shirts because that’s what a gentleman does and in bed, at night, his t-shirt would smell like his day, soap, a little sweat, fresh cut grass because he always mows the lawn, whiskey, and cigarettes because Mr. Rogers is a good man but he’s still a man prone to the occasional bad habit. I would pat my hand against his cotton covered chest and feel his warmth and the strength of the muscle there because Mr. Rogers would take very good of himself. We would make love with the lights off, beneath the covers, missionary style but it would be exactly what I wanted. Mr. Rogers would be a surprisingly passionate man. He would sweat through the Brylcreem and his hair would start to hang long in his face and his hair would brush against my face and he would whisper secret things to me and I would whisper secret things to him. Every night, as we fell asleep, Mr. Rogers would whisper, “It’s a beautiful day,” and I would think of how nicely his cardigan sweaters looked in the closet next to my clothes and I would say, “Yes, Mr. Rogers, it is.” I would always call him
Mr. Rogers.
