paris charles de gaulle airport

body hair, butchness, baggage claim

on my flight to paris i dreamt of light filtering in through the blinds; onto the hair of her forearms, bare. i awoke to the weight of a french man’s head on my shoulder, a stranger’s stubble against my skin; i had nothing but the flimsy headrest to blame. i did not move, accustomed to supporting infant necks; their eyes flutter like his were right then. the buttoned shirt had lifted slightly, his stomach pale— translucent, almost blue. i do not often see men up close like this, much less this defenseless.

my grandfather had kissed my cheek before i went through security, this scruff, too, had scratched me. he waved until i was out of sight; i didn’t want to keep craning my neck to check, in case he had left, but i couldn’t resist— he had one hand lifted towards me and the other on his chest, sometimes it would reach to wipe right below his waterline. his head looked unbalanced; hairline thinning, beard growing. i had wanted to shave it for him, to run the blade against his skin and see the purples of his eyelids.

the aircraft was turbulent but the fabric of my dreamscape bedsheets lingered. one night she gave herself a mustache with my brow gel— i had big glued-on lashes, her peach fuzz was soft against my fingertips. sometimes in the bath she would lift my ankle onto her shoulder, shave the length of my leg. sometimes i would trace the trail from her bellybutton to her boxer briefs in pure bliss. sometimes she would raise her arms and show me how much she’d grown out her pits.

i made my way to baggage claim after landing and watching other passengers file out of the gate. it was a sunday and we would’ve been in bed eating biscuits, freshly baked. the oven would’ve still been warm, heating up the kitchen; butter would’ve been dripping down our chins. i lifted my own luggage off the conveyor belt, there was a groan i let slip— these days, i walk past parisian bakeries and remember the space between her nose and upper lip.