The Loser, early this morning

Three a.m. The Complete and Total Loser senses her in bed next to him. She's come from the bed she was sleeping on previously in the room across the hall. He pats her on the shoulder and goes back to sleep. The Loser wakes a half hour later and she's still there. He can hear her breathing, small puffs of air whooshing through nostrils and nasal cavities. He reaches over and touches her hair. He puts his hand on her stomach. She pushes it away. He puts it back. She lets it remain. The two return to sleep.

Four o'clock. She rouses. The Loser feels her movement under his hand and also wakes. She gets off the bed and exits the room, again, wordlessly.

The Loser hears her footsteps as she goes down the stairs. She is, he guesses, headed to see if there's food in her bowl, or to use the litter box.

Breasts

It is 1974. The Complete and Total Loser, age 15, is hitchhiking home from school. He does this often. In the morning, he takes 50 cents from his mother's purse for the bus home. (His father drops him off in the mornings on his way to work.) He pockets the money and buys cigarettes or candy with it. This is when candy bars were a dime and a pack of Vantage cigarettes, his preferred brand, is 45 cents at a pharmacy. He goes to an all boys prep school that requires short hair and a jacket and tie so he gets rides easily.

The ride, down his suburb's main drag, is around four miles. He meets many types while hitching and in the hundreds of times he does from age 14 till he had wheels senior year he has just one scary incident ("Are those pants reinforced?" the man said before checking). On this day it is spring and warm, a hint of summer heating the air. His ride is from an older man, a cigar smoker, well dressed, gruff, in a Cadillac.

They're going through a town eponymous with a Seven Sisters college, and the women are out in force, strolling the sidewalks, window shopping. Mid-70s feminism and youth combined in such a way that women frequently went braless, something clearly evident on this day. The man and boy take this in.

Half way through the town, the man says, "What is it about a woman's jugs? I'm 64 years old and I'm still looking."

The Loser, being as articulate as most his age, says, "Huh. Yeah."

The conversation ends, but not the fact. It is true for the Loser to this day, that the sight of breasts catches his eye, even when they're the plastic, un-nippled ones of a mannequin at work, and even though he's put sex permanently on the back-burner. He can answer it with psychobabble—they're a pronounced gender difference, the first source of nourishment, it's women's fault for shielding them so often—but while understanding usually leads to a cooling of passions, in this case it doesn't.

The Loser uses the word "boobs" when referring to breasts in informal instances. It's a womanish word, but he dislikes "tits," which he finds sharp and crude, and words like "hooters," "knockers" are not to be said with a straight face by anyone under 70 and not in the Armed Forces. The newer words like "cans" and "fun bags" aren't ones the Loser would say unless he were simultaneously making fun of his age when talking to his younger friends and addressing them as "dawg."

Will breasts always have this hold on him? he wonders. He does the simple crossword puzzle in his city's Metro and when the clue is "bikini part," three letters, beginning with "b," he takes a little more time care writing "bra" than other words. The Loser was 21 when he felt a breast for the first time. He was surprised at its inconsistency. His partner, a sweet, patient, smart woman a year behind him in college, let him feel her in a clinical way. The soft fat, the lumpy glandular tissue. It's been years since he felt one and it's unlikely he'll feel another unless his body goes completely to seed and he develops the equivalent on his own chest.

But it wouldn't be the same.

The Loser is Guilty

Wouldn't it be great if you could turn emotions on and off? The Complete and Total Loser's first choice would be guilt, for it is the recollection of guilt, unlike sadness or anger, that makes you feel it with the same thigh-pounding sting you felt just after your transgression even years later. Its nearest equivalent in that sense would be embarrassment.
The Loser, being ever a Loser, has much guilt, often over small things his victims have surely forgotten by now. Ripping up the sole print of his baby picture in 1971. A broken lunch date with a friend in China in 1985. There are times the Loser wishes everyone he's ever known vanished. Of course, the bereft loved ones they'd leave behind would only compound his agony.
And lacking any degree of empathetic foresight, he'd continue to offend.
Even small things wake him at night. Take this stink bug pictured above. Tiresome, non-native American pests, the Loser finds a few a day for days in a row, crawling slowly about his apartment, buzzing his small reading light at night. They're harmless, no threat to people or crops. They just crawl around, often stopping and calmly dying where they stand.
Not the one here. Oh no. The Loser put it outside on a fairly warm day. In other seasons that gives the creatures more than a sporting chance. But on this day, the forecast was for bitter cold that night, and the Loser knew it.
Guilt.