I should really slap myself. This is Daisy I'm talking about. She makes every person she talks to feel like they are the most important person, the center of the world. It's one of her many talents. I am not special.
"Hey," I respond, my tone unnecessarily gruff.
"Ooh," Daisy volleys, unperturbed. "Are you a grumpy pants today?"
"No." I try to adjust my tone, but it's only marginally improved. Gruffadjacent,at best.
"Careful," Daisy teases. "You're about to come off as downright cheery."
My mouth twitches into a smile, a gleam stealing into Daisy's incredibly beautiful brown eyes. "Are we here to put my tone under a microscope, or work through my physical issues?"
"Physical issues," Daisy chirps, walking back to a contraption that looks a lot like a torture device.
"What is that?" I ask, eyeing it with trepidation. No matter what it is, I'd still take it over the foam roller.
"It's to stretch you out before we start." Daisy lies down on the padded table, hooking one of the straps around her thigh and demonstrating a stretch. "It doesn't bite."
"What a relief."
Daisy hops off the table, and when she does, I notice a bandage wrapped around her palm. Nodding at it, I ask, "Did you hurt yourself smacking your fiancé upside the head?"
Daisy gives me a look like she can't believe what I just said. To be honest, I can't believe I said it either. I've got to be better about not word vomiting my thoughts.
"Close," she says, patting the table to let me know she wants me to get on. "I was using a pry bar and I cut my hand."
Without thinking, I reach for her hand, intent on examining it myself. At the last second I think better of it, turning the maneuver into an awkward way to hoist myself onto the table.
Clearing my throat to cover up my supreme dumbassery, I ask, "Why were you using a pry bar?"
"To pry something."
"Oh, really?"
She lifts her eyebrows twice, affirming.
"Let me try this again," I start, but Daisy presses on my shoulder with a fingertip, trying to coax me down. I press back against her, refusing to lie down. "Whatwere you prying that required the use of a pry bar?"
"My bathroom sink. Cabinet. Vanitything. I don't know exactly what it's called."
She pokes at me again. Again I press back. She audibly sighs at me.
"Did you just weaponize a sigh?"
Daisy puts her hands on her hips. "I don't know why we're having this conversation. I hurt myself. People do it all the time, in varying degrees of severity. Have you never given yourself a paper cut, Peter Bravo?"
"Never," I respond solemnly.
She laughs. "Right, right. You just get yourself in a situation that requires you to need physical therapy."
"Paper cuts are for amateurs."
Instead of poking me, Daisy places her palm on my shoulder. It's warm, and comforting, and when she flexes her fingers, gripping me, I melt. Like a human popsicle, I dissolve into her touch, allowing her to gently guide me down. In a honeyed voice, she says, "Tell me what happened to you when you were serving. You said a little bit about it at our last appointment, but I'd like to know more. Why are you in physical therapy?"
I gave her the short version of my injury story before, but she's seen my scars, and she's curious. I get it.
She stands over me, an angel, so beautiful it hurts. I thought of her that day, when taking a breath felt like being stabbed, when my skin screamed with the sharp sting of lacerations, and the back of my head throbbed in reverberation.
"It was a maritime operation. The mission was to intercept arms smugglers who had also taken an American contractor hostage." I've talked about this so many times, recounted the events to military provided therapists, that it's no longer upsetting. It's become a recitation of events.
