She’s thirsty, you fool.
“Water?” I say.
“Yes,” she replies.
“Manners?” I tease.
“Yes, please, Ethan,” she teases back.
My heart soars when she says my name. When her lips meet mine. When her arms wrap around me and hold me close. When her burning body devours mine.
I slide her head from my chest to the pillow, and I sit up and reach for the glass of water on the bedside cabinet.
“Oh!” I say, and laugh when I realize that she can’t sit up because her wrists are still tied. I put the glass back down and I help her sit up. I put the glass of water to her lips and help her to drink.
She smiles and then she says thank you. And I love that she is polite.
“Can you untie me now?” she asks, her tone suggesting caution.
I look down at her hands. At her body.
My smile falls. It slips from my face like water from a glass. I put the glass down, turning away from her to do so, to give myself precious seconds to think her request over.
Her tied hands reach up to touch my back. “What happened here?” she asks, her fingers tracing the scars on my body. And she’s so tender when she touches me that it gives me faith that she is being genuine with her concern.
My chest and back are scarred from the viciousness of my life. From when I was a pussy,I think but don’t say.
I turn back to her and her hands slip away. Her eyes meet mine, cautiously, optimistically. I take her hands in mine, and my mouth tugs at sadness.
“The past happened to it,” I say.
Her almond-shaped eyes are cast across my chest. “I’m so sorry,” she says. And it’s sincere.
“That’s okay,” I reply. I feel overwhelmed, almost choked by her beauty. By her tenderness toward me. By her love.
She shakes her head, her knotty hair tumbling about her shoulders. “No, it’s not, Ethan. It’s not okay.”
She leans forward and she kisses one of my scars. The act sends lightning through my body. An electric current surging through my veins.
“It’s not okay at all,” she murmurs as she kisses more of the scars.
Her lips press against the scars from my life in prison before they sent me to the hospital.
The cigarette burns. The pen stab. The razor slices. The boot kick that broke the skin and fractured my ribs. The baby oil burn. And all of the other ones that make up the patchwork of my body.
She kisses each and every one. Not a single mark of the past is missed by her tender kiss.
And when she is done, she says, “Roll over now.”
So I do. And I am still wary of her, but it’s falling away because she is gentle, and loving, and kind. And I’ve waited so long to feel this kindness, this gentle touch from her. From my Carrie. Her skin smells so sweet. And her hair smells of cinnamon. And her kisses are wondrous, magical gifts that she’s bestowing on my broken, battered body. And I need this. I need her kindness. I need her love like I need air.
She tries to straddle my back, and it’s clumsy and awkward because her ankles and wrists are still tied up. She laughs lightly. It sounds like fairy laughter, light and airy, a set of tiny bells tinkling in my heart.
So I swallow and I nod, and I untie her hands and I untie her ankles. Because she is mesmerizing, and beautiful. Because she is real and here and present with me. Because she is sweet and kind, and wants to take care of me like I take care of her.
“Turn over, onto your front,” she says. “Let me kiss each pain away.”
And I am floating away as I turn over and she straddles my back, and her lips press against each scar, each mutilation carved against my skin. Her kisses burn, they sting, they heal, and they undo me.
“I’m not a pussy anymore,” I say.
“I know,” she replies.
“I promise. I’m a man now.”
“You are,” she says.
And she continues to kiss. And she does not run from me. She does not hide anymore.
It’s just her and me, and everything else falls away while she puts me back together.
