The first time Mike wakes up at Harvey’s alone, he turns around and buries his nose in Harvey’s pillow. It smells of Harvey’s shampoo and his cologne (faintly) and of his sweat and his deep and dreamless sleep. It smells like Harvey and Mike takes several deep breaths before he brings his head up again in dire need of oxygen.
That’s when he sees it. A little piece of paper that must have been lying on Harvey’s pillow. Mike picks it up and brings it to his eyes. He blinks a couple of times and reads it again.
Harvey’s handwriting and all. Mike breaks into a huge smile and rises with a hum on his lips. That hum turns into a wordless song in the shower while Mike gets ready for the day.
After that, they keep appearing on Harvey’s pillow, those little notes, whenever Harvey had to or wanted to get up before Mike.
You snored. And you drooled.
Last night was…
Dinner at mine tonight. 9pm.
You look funny when you sleep.
Already left for work. Bring coffee.
At the gym. Join me if you feel like it.
I can still feel you.
Client meeting – will be at the office around noon.
Aspirin on the bedside table. Take two.
Your hair is a mess.
Wear that grey suit today.
No more pot. I mean it. I am too old for that shit.
Your neighbors apparently have a new baby. Annoying. How do you sleep with that?
You smell delicious. Wish I had time to taste…
Will be out all day. Made reservations at Angelo’s for 9.30pm.
Have a great day.
Fresh bagels in the fridge.
I love you.
Mike keeps them all and carefully stores them away in a beautiful wooden box he keeps in his desk at their home. From time to time, he takes out the box, opens it and reads through all of those little treasures, one by one, that same joyous smile on his face that the first note brought to life all those years ago. He reads the notes from the first to the last, never leaves out a single one.
The newest note simply reads: