She chooses her clothes based not on looks, but comfort. Sock seams must align with toes. Pant legs must not "hug." Shirt collars should not brush against her neck. She prefers the texture of crocheted blankets, and the smell of one crocheted blanket in particular. Her right hand clutches the blanket and strokes it repetitively with her index finger. Her left hand holds the blanket to her nose while she inhales what appears to be pure comfort.
On Sunday, Lauren sat to the left of me. Half-way through the meeting, she started nuzzling my arm, rubbing her nose into my sleeve as if tracing its paisley pattern. I was amused at first, but after a few minutes I whispered, "Do you think you could get off my arm?"
"You smell good." I remembered I had tried a new perfume sample that morning and decided to let her enjoy it, which she did for the rest of the meeting.
This morning she climbed into our bed to get warm. She cuddled next to me and sniffed at my shoulder. "How do I smell?"
"Normal." So, for fun, I climbed out of bed and spritzed my arm with the perfume. I snuggled next to her and waited. As expected, her peacefully closed eyes opened wide, and her sleepy pout spread into a huge smile. "How did you do that?"
"It's perfume." I could see her wheels turning.
"Where do you keep that?"
"I'm not telling."
She snuggled up with my arm and seemed content to smell me. And I have to admit, I was pretty content being smelled.
Her blanket's got it good.
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