IC Contact Post

[mathemagier]

[Screened calls go straight to voicemail, where an impatient recording answers]

You've reached Dr. Hermann Gottlieb. Leave your name, number, and business if you expect a return call. Thank you.

Comments

[driftsintobuffetline]

I do. I know. I don't deserve it, but
I know.

Nap, Hermann. For fuck's sake, one of us might as well sleep, in bed, no less, with nice memory-foam pillows and those soft sheets of yours.


Dude, I can almost smell the fabric softener--and you, your skin smells so good after a shower, so pink, and your hair, the way it sticks up after you towel it dry, the way your lashes look even more full when wet-- I was a pretty shitty songwriter back when I had a band, Hermann, I can admit that... but you're what men write songs about.

Here I am waxing poetic about a fresh-from-the-shower Hermann Gottlieb. I wasn't even picturing you naked, honest, and that's the worst part of this. It wasn't even, like...THAT. I could practically feel your pajamas...the flannel, the piping, the plastic buttons, how they push against my cheek and leave marks and...

When did I get so pathetic?

[mathemagier]

[It's an impossible amount of feeling condensed into so many words, and Hermann's moderately grateful that they aren't connected right then. He blames stress for his emotional state.

One of these days he'll get all that in more than writing]

You have terrible taste. But I miss you just the same, Newton. That is why I must work as much as physically possible. I cannot abide this distance and I wish there were anything I could do to immediately teleport you home.