of the Civil War. But if I had to pick, it’s probably the one she’s been able to see all along, the one Ettore imprinted on my temple, the one that speaks every time I look in a mirror, reminds me why I’m doing all of this. But Melody needs to see more, to see what’s behind my curtain of clothes. I’m not sure where to begin, but I’m hot from the steam, so I don’t hesitate to pull my sweater up and expose my stomach, display a six-inch scar that healed into more of a valley than an indentation, the result of a wayward knife when I was ten years younger.
Melody opens her mouth but nothing comes out, leans up and slowly reaches for my abdomen, runs her finger lightly across the scar. “Oh, my…” She swallows. “How terrible.” Honestly, the thing looks far worse than it ever hurt. Alternatively, I have a small puncture wound—can barely see it—right at the center of my left deltoid, a poorly healed perforation that sends a blast of pain all the way to the base of my neck anytime I have to lift something above my head. Melody keeps her fingers moving, leaves the six-inch carving and moves to a smaller question-mark shape near the center of my chest. She raises my sweater as she gazes at the remnants of battles gone by, my own collection of souvenirs. She lifts the sweater even farther as the look on her face turns to queasiness, and I realize I’ve been handed another opportunity to show her how life with me has a discordant translation, that if she has any emotion for me running through her, sustaining it would have to be worth this.
So I pull off my sweater and T-shirt completely, expose my torn and blemished upper body to her like a prize catch pulled from the ocean. She slides back down in the tub as she lets out a sigh, says, “Oh.” She actually turns and looks away, says to herself, “There are just so many.”
Then I quickly put the T-shirt back on as I realize the potential mistake I made: My wounded body may have reinstated the fear of what she could face tomorrow. “Well, all wounds heal, you know? I mean, most of them do, I guess. You can get through pretty much anything. Remind me to get rid of this DNA-soaked sweater, by the way.”
The bubbles are disappearing so I step up my tending to her cuts. I finish her arms and shoulders, ask her how her ankle is feeling.
“Still a little sore.”
I carefully reach into the water, find her knee with my hand, curl my fingers underneath her leg as I run them down the length of her calf. I gently lift up her leg, hold her calf in one hand and drag my fingers to her ankle, rub it softly to check for swelling. I massage her foot—it seems so small and delicate—and ask her how it feels.
She just stares at me, nods quickly, like keep doing that.
The bubbles are gone, her nude body concealed by nothing more than a cloud of soapy water. I walk over to her room to get her terry robe, then open it for her to step into. She backs in, like I’m helping her put on a winter coat, then pulls the sides together and tightens the belt.
I leave her there, walk out to my bed, and sit on the end and drop my head to my hands. She emerges a few minutes later, comes and sits next to me.
“Beating up that guy take it out of you?”
I look at her and smile. “You take it out of me.”
She slides over so our thighs are pressed together, puts her hand on my jeans, slides her hand between my legs. It feels intimate but something’s changed in how she leans my way and touches me, like the surge of passion has dissipated and her interest in me is more thought out, almost preplanned.
“Listen,” she says, “I’m tired, Jonathan. I’m tired of waiting and I’m tired of lying and I’m tired of not living and, I… I’m just going to come out and say it.” I can feel her hand trembling between my legs. “I want you to sleep with me tonight. I mean, I’m not even sure what I’m really asking—as you well know—but I want it to happen.”
While what she’s offering is the greatest gift I might ever receive, her honesty and