Breadcrumbs

Hey, I warned you. In the absence of pocketcam, you get what I got, which is a whole lotta Cat.

Well, more properly it is a lot of views of one smallish cat.

Maybe if she weren't so photogenic. Maybe if anyone else would let me take photographs of their faces.

Not that I'd post pics of Boys here. That would be ill-advised.

For one, I'd have to disclose to them the existence of this blog, and then there would go my pressure valve for when they are driving me apeshit batty.

For another, well, I don't like to share my toys, ya know?

Anyway. All of this is by-the-by. Kitwich is pretty, and even though she generally leaps for cover when I point the Nikon at her, occasionally I do capture some hilarious expressions on her face, and she can't verbalize to me her dislike of being Famous, so here she is, looking sarcastic, as she often does when she's sleepy.

I was telling a friend of mine about how Boy Number Two (who really needs a new designation, since he's now my primary playmate) had accidentally left things at my place a couple of times, and she was telling me it was the modern male's equivalent of marking territory, and then I told her that I'd done the same thing at his place.

And then I thought about it.

When I was in college (way back in the dark ages; I used to ride my pet brontosaur to school), the popular wisdom among us inexperienced college folk held that if a boy or girl left behind an item of clothing or a toothbrush or something at your house, it meant they were into you.

When I realized that the boy and I had begun to do that, I immediately thought of that interpretation and then shrugged it off as silly. I mean, really, who wants to read too much into a toothbrush?

But the curious thing is, the idea of there being some kind of interesting psychological underpinning seems to hold water. Neither of us did that for the first couple of months that we were playing with each other. (Yes, by playing I mean having sex.) The day I left something at his house, I'd been very careful to locate (or so I thought) all my random items. And I got home, all proud that my incriminating undies were safely ensconced in my bike bag, and thought, Oh good. I got everything.

And then he texted me. Oops. The last three times we've spent the night together, the visiting party has left something behind.

So here's what I think.

I don't think it means anything Big. I think it's part and parcel of our weird, non-definable connection to each other. We clearly want to be around each other. For various, private, probably differing reasons, we don't want to be boyfriend/girlfriend. But there is something there that is hard to explain. It's primarily physical, but not in the way that I was with the famous Blonde.

{Note: Longtime readers may remember the Blonde, but more recent recruits can get enough of an image from his nom de plume: The Junk. He acquired that name while I was trying to give him up, and one of my friends kept teasing me about what a hard time I was having with it. "Are you off the Junk yet?" "Yes. I'm off the Junk. Well, nearly." "You are so totally still on the Junk. I bet you're in his apartment right now." "Yeah. I am."}

Anyway.

The Blonde used to drive me but absolutely up a wall, in a good way (mostly). This doesn't quite have the same 50-caliber lust factor, but there is certainly something going on that I don't want to give up. And I think (at least for the moment) that's okay. It's messy. Oh boy is it messy. But there is something there that makes us both want to leave little marks of ourselves behind. Footprints in the sand.