drift way up, her narrow panties exposing her midriff. I can testify that she is consistent—she’s making those look good, too. If I ever return to Norfolk, I’ll have to find Melissa and compliment her on her saleswomanship.
“Come here,” she says.
I take a deep breath and narrow my field of vision to the floor—no one could ever joke of my being a weakling after performing this act. “We should get you cleaned up.”
“I’m too dirty for you?” Though I’m not looking, I can tell she’s dragging a fingertip across her belly button.
“That’s not what I meant.” Eyes to the floor, eyes to the floor.
“Okay.” She slowly rolls over and gets to her feet. Her ankle still seems to be bothering her, but she’s able to walk on it now, takes uneven steps in my direction. I watch her feet as they approach, can’t help but notice the contrast of red nail polish against her cream-colored skin. She stops right in front of me. “I’ll draw a bath,” she says, then slowly raises her arms, and the now strapless dress falls to the ground like a bath towel.
My eyes, still cast downward, study the bloody dress. If I look at her body, I will shed any sense of control I have—I’m only flesh and blood, after all, and mostly flesh, at that. I’ll want to feel her against me with such desire that I’ll undoubtedly make the worst possible decision, cross a line that will cloud and distort the meaning of tomorrow’s big event. I’ve spent so much time trying to free her of me and my family; the last thing she needs is to want to be around me, with me.
I close my eyes and lift my head, wait until they’re aimed at her face. When I open them, I see the hope in her expression, along with the longing for intimacy and the request for not being rejected—which I attempt to assuage.
I step backward to the closet and grab a blanket. “Melody, you do not need to seduce me.” As I enwrap her, I add, “I’m yours already.” Have been since you were six years old. “Let me draw your bath.”
Melody sits down on the edge of the bed and I walk to the bathroom and pull back the curtain of my tub, run the water and take the first gush of cold water and splash it across my face. I wait as the tub fills with hot water, squirt enormous blasts of body wash under the stream to create a thick coverlet of bubbles, sit on the floor as billows of steam rise to the ceiling. Once the tub is near the top, I leave the bathroom, find Melody sprawled back on the bed, staring at the ceiling, running her hand up and down the seam of the bedspread.
“Your bath is ready.”
She props herself on her side. “Will you stay with me?”
“I was gonna tend to your wounds. Just need to get my Dopp kit from my overnight bag. You can go ahead. I’ll be right in.”
I open my suitcase and grab the leather pouch I’ve carried with me on all my journeys, the pouch with contents used to stop the bleeding from so many unexpected events. I hear the water move in small waves, can visualize the immersion of her naked body. I wait an extra minute before returning to my bathroom where she waits.
I tap the door and she says, “You can come in.”
I peek around the corner. On the floor, I notice the piled-up blanket with her panties curled on top as though she’d just melted like Frosty the Snowman or the Wicked Witch of the West. Steam coats me as I take a half step in.
Her body is buried under the water, protected by a shield of bubbles. I open my bag and start retrieving items like a medic on a battlefield. I analyze her wounds, start looking at her arms and hands and shoulders. I soak a cotton ball in antiseptic and gently dab it on an open cut on her forearm. Melody closes her eyes, grimaces. After a few iterations, she gets used to the pain, begins watching me instead of the wounds.
“You’re good at this,” she says softly.
“Well, I’ve got a lot of experience fixing wounds—my own, at least.”
She watches again, the only sound between us the noise of the bathroom fan. Then a few moments later, she says, “Show me one.”
“One what?”
“Wound.”
That’s like trying to select the most significant battle