And clean.
And that means . . .
Nothing, I remind myself.
I want to make this unprecedented morning have some important cosmic meaning, but that kind of thinking only leads to trouble.
That way, there be dragons.
Fact. I’m warm. Naked, clean, and warm. I have taken not only a shower early this morning when I made it over from Black Diamond, but also a bath.
Facts.
I can’t remember the last time I took a bath, or even a warm shower. The water temperature in the moldy, communal bathroom I share at my place barely gets above freezing. Same with the facilities at the shelter. Sad facts, but facts nonetheless.
Pulling the heavy blanket around me, I wiggle into too many pillows. This luxury is happening on the bright shiny new day to a new year. Also a fact, one my brain yearns to twist into meaning something. I stamp it down, but I do a terrible job. That ember of hope burns a bit brighter than it did yesterday.
Don’t, I remind myself, exhausted at my inability to just stay down. I need to learn the lesson of how I fucked up this badly, I tell myself. How I got to a place where warm water and clean sheets are luxury items.
Figure it out. Fix it. Move on.
The condo is like heaven, though, and my clean, naked body feels amazing against the silky bed linens. They smell like detergent and sunshine. And I smell like the high-end luxury toiletries Mann properties are stocked with.
Like Disneyland, each condo building the Manns own in Bear Valley—and that’s most of them—has its own unique theme, carried down to the very scent in the air. I knew Matt and his family were all about the small touches making Bear Valley, but coming over last night in nothing but the clothes I was wearing, I put that to the test. The condo passed, of course.
This one, Black Bear, is one of the newer installations. The bath soap, lotion, and other amenities smell like a pine forest. Not overwhelmingly, like a car air freshener would, or like cheap cleaning products. No, a woodsy, outdoor scent, with just the faintest hint of pine. I caught a hit when I entered the lobby, then again when I opened the door to this condo. But the scent even carries through to the toiletries left for guests. The minty toothpaste is the only exception.
More toiletry products are provided than I normally use these days. Body wash to mouth wash lined up on the counter of the bathroom in beautiful glass bottles, with heavy paper labels, thin, velvet ribbons, and a small sprig of pine. Even the disposable razor and toothbrush are sealed in almost cloth-like plastic, waiting for use. Elegant somehow despite being ordinary, mundane objects. The sunscreen provided at Black Bear is thick and luxurious, and so is the body lotion I put everywhere I could reach. After tonight, I will be carrying that little pot of SPF 70+ back with me.
It’s like traveling back in time to my old apartment in Salt Lake. I used to have all of these things: high-end products I owned, even if not strictly necessary. Now, I use the cheapest soap. The cheapest deodorant and toothpaste. Everything else isn’t important. Okay, not true. I also use sunscreen and Chapstick because both of those are requirements of living here, but mine came from the storage closet over in Larkspur. Before that, it was what I could put together from the shelter or from things abandoned at Black Diamond. Maybe a bit of dumpster diving in there, too.
I’m naked because the condo also has a washer and dryer, as well as laundry soap and dryer sheets. Those do smell like pine, but again, just barely and beneath a fresh, clean smell. But it’s the really good, actually-cleans-your-clothes laundry soap. The laundromat I frequent works well enough, but the low-key smell of food never seems to truly leave my wardrobe of Black Diamond t-shirts. My basic detergent doesn’t work well, either. So since I have the chance, I am washing everything. Even my shoes. No way the commercial washers are this good.
Thus, naked.
In the closet, I find a plush robe and tie it over my body, about as soft as Dumpster Kitty’s fur. I am so warm it makes my head spin. Warm enough to pad my almost-naked ass into the kitchen area.
I think the floors are heated.
All the condos are stocked with the basics, something I learned this summer, so I poke around the cabinets before pulling out my leftovers from the party last night. There is coffee and tea, but also hot cocoa, which I make instead. I slept so well last night I don’t need caffeine. This is just self-indulgence.
I know why I slept well, too. There is a lock on the door, heated air, a heavenly mattress, and a clean scent in the air. More importantly, the only people who know where I am are Matt and probably his other brothers. Deny does not, and I am one hundred percent sure of that for the first time in . . .fifteen or sixteen months?
It’s early, so I make my way back to the bed. I’m awake, and I have hours before I have to meet Matt. Dumpy curls by the fireplace, her bowls still full in the kitchen. Carrying her food and supplies over here was nothing, and I am glad Matt suggested it.
It’s nice to have company and not feel lonely. An experience like this should be shared. Somehow Matt knew that, and it makes me swoon for him a little bit.
I don’t let myself spin out scenarios where this is my real life. Or pretend it is. A place like this or even merely a warm, safe place, and the luxury of a cat. I laugh out loud. I can barely take care of myself, much less something dependent on me.
Not to mention Deny. If he or Nico knew I loved anything in this world, they would see it dead.
Searching the shelves, I find a few books promising enough to go back with me to the bed. Dumpy follows.
“Let’s read to go back to sleep, hmmm, Dumpy?” I ask absently as she trails me back to the room.
At one point, I had a library card, but I couldn’t guarantee the books wouldn’t get stolen from my room, so I only used the internet there sometimes. Now I have a good phone, thanks to Quinn, but I never search anything about me on that device. Or about Nico.
Just in case.
