He is shaving when she comes into the bathroom (in uniform pants, bare-chested), one side of his face completely finished, the other almost so. Dressed for her day (pantsuit, blue blouse, hair not yet in place) and carrying a coffee mug. She catches his gaze in the mirror. She smiles at his reflection, at him. Her eyes flick lower, to his scar. A line of harsh red that divides one half of his chest from the other (except, she thinks, no – it is not a division, it is a joining).

Despite their living arrangement and intimacy, he does not bare this marking to her eyes often. It is palpably ironic that the fact she no longer has hair, that she has a lump in her breast, that she is dying from the inside out, never gives him pause when he looks upon her, but he still covers the seam that stitched life back into him. It is not lost on her.

She loves his scar. She thinks it is beautiful. She thinks he would be dead without it.

(His chest cracked open, his insides torn and weeping. This is what happened in the literal.

Sometimes, she knows, when he looks at her and thinks of how badly things could go – it is what happens in the figurative.)

She loves his scar. She thinks it is beautiful.

She raises her eyes again to meet his. A harder expression is burgeoning underneath the tranquillity that he had met her with. (It is directed at himself.)

She moves forward and places her mug beside the sink (it is the yellow one, his-made-hers at his behest – another item to add to a continuously growing list. What is hers, what is his – titles of possession no longer a concern). She pushes herself between him and the sink, facing him. She takes the razor from his hand, sets it beside the mug.

She raises a hand (still warm from the mug) and runs her index finger down the length of the scar – from top to end and along the upswing. Following the path with her eyes, she can feel and see his breathing change – she traces the line back up again. She stops adjacent to his heart (his dog tags just over the tops of her fingers, cool metal on cooling skin) and something in the moment hitches her breath.

A thought (so violent so ugly so terrifying) breaks from imagination and punches her square in the chest (she rocks back on her heels, stunned). He could have died. She knows this, of course she does – she had stood at his bedside, beside his unconscious body before she had had to flee, to run. They were not them then, they were barely anything, or had been starting and then reset. He could have died. And she would not be standing here now for so many reasons. And it hits her again.

She could be alive without him. She could not live as such. There is a difference and she knows it. Alive and living. (His heart beats just to the right of her fingers.) He is alive and living with her. She is dying and living with him.

This scar marks more than just flesh, more than just tissue. It holds one half of him to the other. Without it, she would be alone. It does not hold him to her. Love does that. But without it, he would not stand before her now. It would not be cancer that kills her.

She loves this scar. It is beautiful.

(How awful how awful how awful it is for him. This scar on his chest a constant reminder of an almost-death. And her in their home a constant reminder of an impending one.)

His scar reminds him of death. It reminds her of life. She loves this scar. It is beautiful.

She drops the hand on his chest as her other raises, both finding purchase on his pants. She slips her fingers inside his pockets (thumbs graze the outside material along his belt; she tugs him closer). She is still not looking at him, engrossed with this line, this mark, this reminder. He makes no comment, lets her be. She leans forward, her lips connecting with the puckered flesh. She feels him retract slightly, not at her touch (never never never) but at his feelings for the scar colliding with hers. She tugs him back, kisses again, flicks out her tongue.

Her hands slide from his pockets and slip around his waist; she draws him close to her body, hugs him tight as she fits herself against his shoulder, breathing in his scent, forehead brushing against his shoulder, his neck. His arms encircle her. Their arms wind them together, him to her, her to him. Each to the other. She breathes deeply, content. She pushes her fingers into his back.

She can sense him smiling, grinning. She tilts her face up. "What?"

A slight lift of his chin towards the mirror, towards their reflection. "We're a cute couple."

She laughs loudly, freely, into his skin, it oscillates through them both. "Cute?" (Couple is undisputed. It is an accurate descriptor.)

"More so you than me." He squeezes her tighter, brushes his lips across her bare head, once, twice, than again.

She angles her face upwards and calls his mouth to hers. He answers softly, lovingly.

Her words are gentle, frothy. "I don't know, Bill. You're pretty adorable." She giggles as the words skip from her throat even as he closes his eyes, shakes his head in feigned vexation. (He is adorable, as she adores.)

She takes a step back, loosening their grips but not their connection (his hands on her hips now, her left hand against his ribs) as she turns enough to reach for his razor, takes it in hand. (The light layer of shaving foam still graces his jaw on the section he had not finished.) He raises a hand to take the blade from her, but she shakes her head, slides her hand up his torso to his chin, holds him in place as she draws the razor against the grain of hair, shaving away the remaining stubble – one stroke, two. She kisses his cheek, the corner of his mouth, him – fully.

She pulls back, steps out of their embrace and hands him back the razor. "Finish getting ready. If we leave early, we can come home early." (She hopes this is true, she hopes their day will allow them the evening). She sidesteps away (collecting her mug as she goes) and dances her fingers down his scar once more, catches his eyes in the mirror again.

She loves this scar. It is beautiful.