#jamari fluff

Have you ever seen a puppy get excited? When they’re running around, tripping over their paws, yipping, along with jumping at your legs. Imagine instead of a puppy, it’s a five-foot-nine, semi-truck of a man. Yeah, that’s what I woke up to this morning. “Babe. It’s locs day! Instacart brought the groceries you asked for and the hair stuff is on the table.” I call him Puppy for a reason.

Sunlight flows through the blinds, into our bedroom, dripping onto his face. Shit, you’re really pretty like this. The skincare routine I forced him into is paying off; his skin is more radiant lately. Can locs day wait a little bit? I want to stay in his arms a little longer. He’s a human furnace and oh so cuddly. His normal voice flusters me from the simplest sentences. Muttering into my ear is attempted murder. This man is too sadistic to me. Pretty face, intoxicating voice, cuddly body, tender laugh, wholesome personality. How did I get so lucky with you, My Love? You’re acting like all the things I do for you are a big deal. To me, they’re the least I can do to show the true extent of my love. Learning your habits as well as preferences. Familiarizing myself with your mindset. Coaching you on how to unlearn the harmful behaviors you picked up in self-defense. Manipulating you to love yourself as much as I do. Learning new dessert recipes. It’s the bare minimum for someone like you.

“Do we have to change out of our PJs?” You look so at peace when you’re wearing PJs. It only adds to how at home you make me feel. Of course, you’ll say no, we don’t have to. Maybe because we’re staying home; maybe because I don’t have my own PJs so I’ll seamlessly steal yours. Either way, I’m ok with it. You gently kiss my forehead then start to get up. Shifting the navy blue comforter off of you and putting on the fuzzy pink bunny slippers I bought for your birthday. You’re wearing the burgundy satin bonnet I bought last week along with a plain tank top and white boxers with hearts scattered on them. Like I said, so pretty. Your body heat prevents me from wearing much to bed, not that you’d complain though.

It’s my turn to get out of bed and get dressed. Everything is right where I left it last night. Fuzzy lounge pants atop of plush socks rest at my feet before I put them on. We’ve recently upgraded to a queen-sized mattress. Our old bed frame couldn’t accommodate a queen so we had to get a new bed frame too. We both sought after a bed with storage to replace the dresser at the end of our old bed. The headboard has a few cubbies which led us to move the bedside tables to beside the couch. It feels like a lazy Sunday even though it’s Saturday. Who really cares though? It’s locs day and I get to watch My Puppy be as giddy as ever.

I shuffle to the bathroom cause I’m not exactly dehydrated. The bathroom isn’t the most spacious but we sorted out a routine to dance around each other. You watch me through the mirror and smile at yourself. The bathroom doesn’t have the best ventilation so the mint and earth fragrance of body wash lingers in the air. Your dirty towel was left in the bathtub but it can wait until later. You’re brushing your teeth for the first time today. Before we moved in together, depression made me struggle with brushing my teeth every day. On the other hand, you brush your teeth two to three times a day. Our hopeless romanticness drags me with him. It’s adorable how romantic you can get; I never forget how loved or wanted I am. Thank you for that.

Afterward, I wash my hands for twenty seconds as you’re hugging me from behind. I watch the soap bubble up in my hands instead of getting lost in how firm you’re holding me. Or how soft your lips are against my neck. Or how you’re breathing so close to my ear. Or the soft hymns you let out every once and a while. A cute domestic life is the best life. You can’t prove me wrong, cause I’m not. The cute domestic life with my first love is every hopeless romantic’s dream life. And now, it’s my life. I quickly splash some water on my face, brush my face then head to the kitchen. Sand beige crunches under my slippers on the few feet that make up our apartment hallway.

The first task of locs day is baking something sweet. I found an alternative peach cobbler recipe on tic tok. Fresh peach slices, Unrolled croissants, brown sugar, butter, cinnamon, and a little bit of cooking wine. I cut the peaches into eight slices then unroll the croissants. All the while Jamari mixes brown sugar and butter together then pops them in the microwave. The recipe will make eight peach things which means I’ll get two and Jamari will steal the other six. We take turns spreading the brown butter mixture on one side of the croissants and then rolling them back up with two peaches tucked in the middle. The oven’s preheated to four hundred degrees so it beeps at us. We ran out of the brown butter mixture and needed to make more to pour over the peach things. They’re resting in the pan, almost ready to be baked for 30 minutes. All that’s left is a light dusting of cinnamon in addition to a half cup of cooking wine.

After I slid the pan into the oven I realized how sticky my fingers are. Might as well not let any food go to waste. right? I lick my fingers clean while glancing around the kitchen. “Why are you staring at me?” The epiphany hits me like a semi-truck. Oh my god, get out of my kitchen you dirty dirty boy. We’re both laughing as we clean up the kitchen. Everything is back in its place or in the dishwasher in no time. I drape my arms over his shoulders to lean some of my weight onto him. Jamari slides his hands around my lower back and pulls me into him as he leans against the counter.

We stay there for a while alternating between savory make-outs and simply gazing into each other’s eyes. I’ve lost count of how many times he’s studied the details of my face. I’d bet money I don’t have that he could find me in a crowd just by looking at people’s left nostrils. I don’t know how to describe his features. They’re not delicate but they’re not sharp. They’re gentle but still assertive. His eyes are always half-closed but he’s still so expressive. It took a few weeks to learn his quirks. He persistently tries so hard to keep a stoic front around me but always looks more relaxed around me. Even before we started dating. I’m embarrassed to say it took a few months to learn where he holds his stress. His arms are lazily holding me to him. I can’t see any tension in his jaw. He’s completely content standing like this; plus, I can tell he’s basking in this moment. I rest my head on his chest then he kisses the top of my head.

My hands are always cold and always find their way to his neck or sides. My ear is right against his chest so I can hear his heartbeat and breathing. Everything sounds normal and strong as ever. Speaking of strong, I know I said he was cuddly but he’s ripped under that. He’s lost a little bit over the past few months; I need to fix that. Old Spice Timber body wash washes over me and grounds me back to him. He’s trailing his hands along my back. I’m getting sleepy again, darn you Puppy. How dare you make me feel so safe and comfy. How dare you make me love you. Curse you and your romanticism and your gravel voice and your perfect cuddles. Curse you for creating a safe space beside yourself for me and unconditionally loving me. You’re so rude for showing me what love feels like.

I watched the clock and waited for 20 minutes to pass. Can’t forget the oven mitts before I burn my hand to a crisp. Jamari has already grabbed the vanilla ice cream by the time I’ve taken his weakness out of the oven. Barely leaving time to set it atop of the stove. Heaven permeates the air. Warm cinnamon, fresh biscuits, baked brown sugar. Our apartment smells like a bakery, but better. Now the hardest part begins. Making a man who’s built like a semi-truck, taller than me, stronger than me, and willing to kill over a good brownie wait until the peach thing cools down a little. How I am going to do that; I have no idea. But! I can try. My first attempt is a bear hugging him. It doesn’t work for two seconds. My second attempt is holding the cupboard shut so he can’t get a bowl. That lasted maybe twenty seconds. One hand gripping my wrist the other one gripping my waist. I don’t know if he growled or hymned behind my ear; but, I’m undeniably incapacitated. We’re both smiling as we scramble to get our way. He wants to eat sweets, I don’t want him to burn his tongue so he can actually taste it. He eventually turns me around and picks me up by my armpits to plop me on the counter. Followed by planting his hands on either side of my legs. “I’m going to eat something sweet in the next 30 seconds and you can’t stop me.” Oh god, he’s staring daggers into my eyes. I’m not scared of him; but, he can be really intimidating.

My face heats up as I stutter a bit. Was that an innuendo? He’s staring into my soul. Is he, smirking?? Oh, it’s on. He’s not getting away with flustering me without consequences. My fingers snake behind his jaw subsequently pulling him to me. He’s caught on by now and grabs behind my knees to pull me closer to him. A few euphoria-laced kisses later, he remembers what’s sitting on the stove. I hop off the counter so he can get our bowls and spoons. The ice cream has thawed a bit at this point so it’s a perfect consistency. My Baby gets us both a piece of the peach thing as I grab the ice cream scoop then pop the container open. He gets two scoops of vanilla ice cream while I give myself one. He kisses the side of my head followed by him practically trotting off to the living room. I stay behind to put the ice cream back in the fridge.

He’s sitting in front of the couch with his legs tucked under the living room table. We’ve found a show to watch together on Netflix. He’s currently trying to get the TV to work with him. Rattail comb, Lock It Up gel, an assortment of butterfly clips from the ’90s, a few hair ties, a happy Baby, and our show. Yup, all set. I set my bowl on the table then toss my leg to sit behind him on the couch. He took his bonnet off after he sat down. It’s currently laying to the side of all the retwisting supplies. I use grabby hands to ask for my bowl back. His locs will be there after I eat. Ya know how I said it smells heavenly? Well, it tastes like all things good in this world. Sugar, spice, and the contrast of the vanilla ice cream is Jamari’s weakness for a reason. I forgot to peel the skin off the peaches but it’s ok. The struggle to cut through them with a spoon is worth it.

He’s on his second peach thing by the time I finish my first. I have to warn him about getting a stomach ache if he eats too much sugar too fast. He insists he’ll be fine but doesn’t go back for a third serving just yet. Bird songs poke through the quieter moments. We have a few feeders on the porch couples with a few wind spinners. Sunlights gushes in through the sliding glass door and casts a slight glare on the TV. The weather is supposed to be nice today. Hopefully, we can get the screen door to slide over to let some fresh air in. The apartment is a little stuffy if you pay too close attention. The stock-colored walls and vaguely worn-out carpet don’t scream of anything remarkable. We’ve been working to make it feel more like a home but at the end of the day; we’re asleep in each other’s embrace. It’s home enough for me and that seems to be enough for My Love.

I start by dividing his hair into six sections by using the hair ties to create five space buns. I reach over him to snag the locking gel, rattail comb, with a small handful of clips just in case. First things first, make sure none of the locs are sharing hairs. Next is using the comb to tidy up the borders of each loc section. I prefer to use the twisting method with the smallest amount of gel securing it with a butterfly clip as necessary. He doesn’t care what method I’m using since I’m playing with his hair and all of my attention is on him. His hair is really thick so I have to take breaks every so often. My Baby massages my arms when I lean on him and hang my arms over his shoulders. I’m in the perfect position to kiss along his earlobes. So, as any reasonable person would do, I take advantage of it. Just have to be careful around his piercings.

It’s late afternoon when I finish twisting. My biceps feel like death. We’ve turned the TV volume up a notch to drown out the upstairs neighbors. We have an inside joke about tap dancing instead of walking. I half walk half jog to the bedroom then bring back a clean bonnet. Neither of us wants product getting on the pillows. And I deserve cuddles, damn it.