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Eric turned off the television and asked if we could give each other foot rubs. That was pretty cool. He puts industrial up with all of the nicknames I give him, including "Fuzzyhead," which is also a term of affection I use for the cats. He very rarely walks out of the living room to the kitchen without stopping to kiss the top of my head. He's never complained about me wearing his clothes, even when I've industrial ruined his favorite pair of shorts. He taught me how to throw and hit a baseball. He very much wants industrial to teach me stick-shift soon. He associates memories and songs with me, and sometimes I don't even know the songs. He hears them and thinks of me. His dimples stop me cold. And when he looks at me, I still melt. He shares. He loves the shit out of that cat, Cal. I don't know. They love each other on a strange, disgusting level that involves stumpy tails and scalp-licking, and although I don't really want to understand it, I appreciate his love for this cat, since he started out as a "dog person."
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