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I get to go out often. Much more often than many of the others; I am his favourite, they tell me. Some of the others have begun to grow musty, having lived in dark corners of the closet without reprieve for weeks, or even months, at a time.
In contrast, I have absorbed endless scents: mud, grass, campfire smoke, the musky sweetness of fallen leaves, dog fur, tea, warm chocolate cupcakes, body spray (thank god he has learned to go easy on the body spray), a hint of spunk (I thank god again that I have not suffered the way the inhabitants of the top dresser drawer have in this regard).
I am rarely washed. I prefer it this way; I carefully collect these scents - the ones that tell the story of his life - between washes, and I must restart each time. For days after a wash I feel wrong: slightly stiff from being hung out to dry and smelling far too strongly of detergent. It’s not bad exactly, but it’s not for me.
Recently, I have been noticing an increased presence of new smells. One, I think, is some sort of hair product, another a slight tang of metal and wood, and still others that are too faint for me to identify, because they are carried to me second hand on skin and hair.
***
I’ve been left draped across the beanbag chair. I have often spent days here, lounging in comfort until he comes home from school, quickly discarding the uptight duo that is Blazer and Slacks in favour of my warm embrace.
Today, however, he is home, and there is another boy here too. I envy Blue Adidas Jumper (not to be confused with Blue Jumper, Navy Jumper, or myself, Blue Hoodie), who is pressed consistently against the dark-haired boy’s side, able to identify and catalogue the array of odours he carries.
My envy is quickly assuaged a few hours later when I am picked up from my spot and handed to the boy. As he pulls me over his head, his curls dragging across my soft interior, I am slightly surprised to discover that he smells of hair product, metal, and wood.
***
I end up in an unfamiliar room that night. After hours outside, absorbing the crisp smell of snow and winter sun, the boy goes home, and I go with him, still draped over his slim form.
Later that evening, the boy peels me off and disappears from the room. When he returns, he carries with him strong smells of soap and the same hair product with which I have begun to grow familiar.
He looks at me, lying there on his bed, for a long moment before I am once again pulled over his head, his damp curls dripping perfumed rivulets that I happily drink up. He pulls my neckline up over his nose, and I can tell he is breathing in all the smells I hold in my fibres. I feel a sense of pride when he sighs contentedly.
After a few days, I am returned home, now drenched in these new scents; to those I had previously identified I can now add wool, popcorn, and a hint of paint, as well as the sickly sweet smell of lemonade that seems to waft constantly around his house.
I get a strong sense of déjà vu when I am placed over familiar broad shoulders before my neckline is pulled up to his freckled nose and huffed. I feel his lips curve up against my fleece before I fall back into place around his neck.
***
My days continue on as normal, though with a significantly increased presence of the dark-haired boy.
And then one evening I am flung from my perch on the beanbag and into a corner while he settles heavily into my usual resting spot with his laptop. He spends hours clicking and scrolling and, based on the smell of salt in the air, crying.
I stay in that corner for a couple of days. I begin to think I am no longer his favourite - that someone else has been chosen - but one day I am plucked from the floor and thrown over his head while he paces tight circles around the room. Then we are out the door and moving quickly down the street through the cool morning air.
And then I am damp. No, not damp, wet. Totally sodden. I hate being wet. I hate the way it forces me to cling tightly against his skin, creating uncomfortable suction with every move. Thankfully, it is only a few minutes before we arrive at a house and the dark-haired boy is letting us inside and into a familiar room where I once spent a few days.
My soaked fabric is peeled away from his skin, and it is a relief, even when Burgundy T-shirt briefly clings to me before being ripped away. I fall into a dripping pile with a slorp; though I wish I had been hung up in a way that would let me dry out, I get the sense quickly that the two boys in the room have other concerns.
When I am retrieved, I am wetly shaken out and then placed onto his body once again. We both shudder as my frigid dampness meets his re-warmed skin. I do my best to keep space between myself and Burgundy T-shirt and skin, but I am simply not strong enough, and I collapse against them once more.
The purposeful stride is gone, and he is walking much more slowly now, despite the continued rain and the way the wind further chills my damp fibres. At least the rain no longer pummels at my shoulder seams.
We are stopped after a moment, and the dark haired boy is there, his warm body pressing against me, his shirt absorbing some of my dampness. He doesn’t seem to notice.
And then he is gone again, and I mourn the loss of his warmth, though I feel the skin beneath me flush with a pleasant heat.