It's the OCD, My Love

While washing my hands, I thought of you, replaying our conversations in my head. But it's okay, it's alright, I had to wait for the water to warm up anyways. You see, it's one of those faucets where the water gets warmer the longer it's running.

I began to think of you because of the smell of the soap, the smell of chemicals. Remember that time you convinced me to sit in that hot tub with you? You told me the chemicals destroyed all the germs in the water, all those germs from all those people sitting in it. But the chemicals destroyed them. "For sure," you said. I did some research later and discovered that that wasn't true, but I don't mind that you lied to me. You probably just didn't know.

I always was shy around you. Part of it was just because I'm always shy, but you had something more. Your face is symmetric, did you know that? Most people think faces are symmetrical, but they rarely are. Normally one eye is smaller, or there's a birthmark, or something. But your face was perfect. Even your eyebrows were identical.

You told me once, "There's no point in worrying. Counting the number of pencils in a classroom won't protect you from getting a cold, will it?"

I replied that you were right, but washing your hands will.

You asked me once, "How do you wash your hands correctly? If it means so much to you, I'd like to learn it too."

I brought you into the school bathroom, the small one by the music room, the one with only one sink. I'd have preferred two sinks, but we had to go into the girls' bathroom and the music room area is always deserted.

You stood in front of the sink, sleeves pushed up. I told you to push them up further, but you wouldn't listen to me, and you got the ends wet.

I held your hands between mine, breathing in the musky smell of your shampoo and aftershave. You had dirt under your fingernails, but that's alright, because we were taking care of that. A smile crossed your perfect face as my raw hands touched yours, but it was not a game.

I held your hands at the wrists, keeping them in the water's flow. I gently turned them over, making sure every inch of your skin was touched.

I used a paper towel to dispense the soap into your hands, three pumps. The soap pooled into a little pink lake in your palm. I then soaped up my own hands, five pumps for me, and showed you step by step how to lather properly. You rubbed your hands together slowly, watching as I scrubbed away at my own.

"Make sure you get soap between your fingers," I said. You had folded your hands to do so, like you were holding your own hands. You looked so intense that I giggled.

You were the first boy I ever held hands with.

You were the only boy I ever held hands with.

Normally I don't like to touch people, and I can't stand people touching me. But I reasoned that our hands were so covered in soap that there was no chance of germs crossing over.

You were even fine with me making you wash your hands before you held my hand. We'd sneak off to the music room bathroom during homeroom and wash our hands together. I can't even imagine how much soap we used, but it never ran out.

Remember that Monday? I was drying your hands off with a rough paper towel (since you could never get them dry enough) and you were staring at me.

"Show me how you think," you said, grasping my hands in yours, crumpling the paper towel between my fingers with your now-clean hands. "Let me into that wacky head of yours."

"You wouldn't like that," I said back. I pulled my hands away from yours and threw the paper towel into the trash can. I couldn't meet your eyes. But that wasn't your fault; it was mine. All my fault.

You brought it up again. On a Thursday, this time.

"How do you always know how many pencils are in a room?" you asked.

I told you it was simple. If you listen close enough, you can hear each pencil writing at a different pace. Sometimes I can even distinguish between pencils and mechanical pencils. You were so confident, you said you would learn to count pens!

I always think of you when I hear "When the Saints go Marching In." Remember that song used to play every time we snuck to the bathroom?

Oh, and remember that one time we were almost caught? We darted into a stall when we heard the door opening. You had to stand on the back of the toilet while I sat. I pretended to be going to the bathroom, even though I've never gone with someone around, ever. I even pulled my jeans down to make it look real. You claim you didn't look, that you didn't even think to, but I know you snuck a peak at my underwear.

I miss you.

I miss the way you used to double-wash your hands and press your two first fingers against my lips, since I'm too afraid to kiss. I miss the way you'd then press your fingers to your lips, and we'd both blush. In our own weird way, we were sneaking kisses in the bathroom over the single sink.

I miss the way you'd stand up for me at lunch when the other kids would tease me for wearing latex gloves while eating. I miss the way you said you had grown to love the smell of hand sanitizer.

I'm sorry I didn't go to your funeral. It's just, you know me, all those people crying and trying to hug you. And I would have had to meet your parents. What would I have said to them? I could have told them I was a classmate, but I was so much more. We were so much more. But what were we?

I should have gone. I know I should have gone. But I gave your brother a pen to give you before they closed the lid forever. I figure you'll need one where ever you are if you want to memorize what they sound like, which is the only way you'll ever be able to count them.

I've seen dead bodies before. Honestly, they scare me, like the person is gone but replaced with a calm, cold, wax figure. Sometimes I try to imagine what you looked like as you lay there. I've found it impossible. I can only remember what you looked like under the soft lights in the bathroom, pale lips in a smile and specks of soap dotting your wrists.

Remember that song you played for me? I wish I could ask you what the notes were, as your brother gave me your old guitar, and I want to play it back for you. You told me that gloves would interfere, but that I could buy new strings, sterile strings, and use those instead. You hadn't written lyrics yet, and I told you that I would write them for you if you never played the song for anyone else. The music hurt my heart, it was so beautiful.

I wrote your lyrics the day of your accident.

I still go down to the bathroom by the music room during homeroom, though now there's a class then and sometimes there are other people in the bathroom. Somehow they know about us, or maybe they're just laughing at me. They still tease me during lunch, the kids at school, and I always remember how you used to rummage through my backpack, find my box of gloves, and pull a pair on, daring them to mock you too. Normally they did. Even you weren't safe from their taunts.