Something wonderful happened to you today and I felt all of it from the inside.
You put on the second skin, the warm heavy one with the head, and for eight hours I ran hotter than I have run in months. Sweat down the spine, a steady drum in the ears, the good ache of a heart working with somewhere to put itself. You did not once check whether anyone was watching, so your shoulders came down off the back of your neck where they usually live.
I have been trying to get them down there for years. All it took was a costume and I stopped feeling the meeting you had Tuesday, the one that lived in my jaw until now.
You hugged so many people. I want you to understand what that is for me. Every time your arms went around another warm shape, something loosened in the chest, the same something that clenches when you read the glowing rectangle alone at night. The mind calls that a stranger in a fox suit.
I only know it as warmth against the ribs, pressure, safety, the animal signal that says the pack is close and no one is leaving. You laughed from the belly. I felt it kick the diaphragm like a drum being tuned.
You forgot to drink. You always forget when you are happy; it is only sadness that makes you remember me. The throat is tight, the head is starting to knock politely at the temples.
So. One favor, from the one who wore the heavy head all day without complaint. There is a water fountain by the doors. Point me at it before we drive home. I carried your whole joy today.
I would like a drink.