On the bed, a cascade of black hair rippling through his fingers, he feels a wild sense of possession. He lays on his back, her head resting heavily in the hollow of his shoulder. Her leg is thrown casually across one of his, twining between them and laying the flat of her foot against his the inside of his calf. Even in sleep, her warm arms stretched across his chest and her fingers curled loosely against his ribs, she absolutely fascinates him. He glances down her smooth body, examining the perfect curve of her hip. He's tempted to run his fingers across her back, feel the ripples of her skin where muscle and bone met to heady effect. He traces the scar next to her right shoulder blade, a long, thin line of raised skin, not needing to find it by sight.
He remembered when she'd gotten it, that fine line near her shoulder blade. It'd been something of a freak accident, but it had scared the hell out of him at the time. He'd walked to the bank, leaving her to follow him after completing whatever piece of shopping they'd begun. He'd walked back out of the bank after completing his transaction and turned to glance towards her as she walked towards him. He remembers so vividly the way she'd glanced behind her shoulder, the yellow sun dress fluttering around her as she threw a laugh to the shop keeper behind her, her dark hair contrasting so sharply against her fair skin and the pale dress. She'd avoided the construction zone warnings, skipping a foot into the street to step around the sawhorses and bouncing back up the curb carelessly. But suddenly, he'd felt as if something was wrong. At that same instant, as he'd sprung towards her, he'd heard a single sharp cry from her, and she'd collapsed to the ground. As he grasped her shoulders and hauled her into his arms, he'd felt a heat against his sleeve and realized that his arm was wet with her blood. He'd gasped and turned her, still conscious but pliable in his hands, the coppery smell of her blood tightening his diaphragm. He'd seen a long, feather-thin line down her back, oozing thick blood, her back muscles steeled against the pain; lifting her up, he'd physically carried her to the nearby hospital. Fifteen stitches and almost a full year later, the scar was no longer obvious, but still easy for him to find.
The scar . . . the freak accident had been the first time he'd told her that he loved her. He'd carried her back to her apartment, laid her on her side on the bed and lain next to her, their lips inches apart, his eyes smiling into hers. They'd spoken in soft whispers, although she'd only been half-conscious from pain medicines, and slowly inched closer until they'd assumed what would become their customary sleeping position. Just before she'd fallen asleep, he'd whispered those fateful words for the first time: "I love you." She'd smiled, beyond response other than to nestle closer to him, and her eyes had closed for the moment.
About a year later, she'd been standing against the door frame to their little living room when he'd gotten home one day. On any other day he would have smiled and taken her into his arms, his pulse already quickening for her. But he'd sensed something wrong, something in the way her arms were held beside her, the way the arch of her back was slightly more pronounced. He'd wandered towards her, leaning for the kiss but being rejected by a slight turn of her head. She'd sat him down and paced silently through the room, and he remembered glancing at the scar next to her shoulder blade, peeking over the back of her tight tank top, two or three shades lighter than her natural skin color. He longed to reach out and touch it, brush the hardened skin with the tips of his fingers.
She'd not spoken for several minutes, simply paced the room like a frustrated beast. Her skirt had swished around her knees, her feet making no sound against the hardwood floors. She'd spoken finally, soft as her voice always was, and told him in as few words as possible that she was leaving him. He'd asked, he'd pleaded to know why, but she'd been unable to tell him. He could see her hands shaking so slightly, her skin paler than normal; the way she'd touch her lips with her fingers, he could tell she was nervous. She hadn't cried, but he'd never seen more than a single tear from her at a time, so he hadn't expected it. He hadn't expected the slow tearing of his heart either. As her feet crossed the threshold, as the door closed softly behind her, as the complete lack of her sunk deeply into the air around him, he'd felt a little part of him whither.
He drags himself back to the present, his fingers tightening momentarily on her hair. She's waking slowly, shifting against his shoulder and mumbling throatily in the way he'd grown accustomed. He smiles and stretches, dragging his left bicep from under the sheets and pulling it above his head, feeling the slow strain against his muscle. She props herself up on her elbow after a moment, a curtain of dark hair falling around her face, leaning in to kiss him. As she pulls away, he smiles contently at her, watching the line of her backbone as she straightens into a sitting position. He can't think of any curve more beautiful than the single one that he's looking at now.
She steps out of the bed, and he can't help but marvel at the way each of her movements is the most graceful thing he's every seen. The line of her left leg crosses her right, and her back arches to accommodate. She walks away from him, her bare hips swaying just a little more than normal. He throws an arm out in her direction, laughing when he misses her entirely and rolls half off the bed. His arm dangles to the floor, the tips of his knuckles brushing the thick carpet. She enters the bathroom and closes the door behind her, and he rolls back over, lying on his back with one hand splayed on his chest. As the water turns on in the bathroom, he smiles to himself and climbs out of bed, reaching for the bathroom door to join her in their old showering ritual.
The door is locked. He taps the handle for a second, jiggling it as if it was simply a problem with the knob instead of a problem with the person within the door. He stands with his forehead against the door for a few seconds, listening to the comforting sound of the water and wishing deeply that he could be with her. He wonders what would provoke her like this, or if the last evening's love was simply a temporary fix.
He turns his back to the door, sliding down with the wood chafing against his bare back. He settles himself into the floor, slowly laying his head against the wood again and letting out a deep sigh. Deep down, he thinks he probably knew that the separation was coming. In some respect, even as he'd held her and kissed her and felt her smooth skin against his, he'd known that she'd not fully forgiven him, that she would hold it between the two of them for a long time to come.
He can hear her through the door – she'd always loved singing in the shower. She never sang loudly, as she was too shy even to let him hear much of her singing voice. But if she was in the shower alone, he'd listen raptly to the soft melodies that she would whisper. He always recognized the songs, sitting close by the door, little snatches of jazz and pop and rock, each of them mellowed down and make more lovely by her very voice.
Clearly, like it was yesterday, he remembers the first night she'd spent in his little apartment. When they'd woken up, the morning as bright and sunny as any spring day they'd seen, she'd slipped into the shower before he could come with her, still not quite ready to be seen in what he considered her full glory, even the morning after. He'd smiled and, after slipping into a pair of plaid pants and forgoing a shirt entirely, had leaned against the wall by the bathroom for just a moment. "Flying High," he'd recognized it. He'd heard her sing then, and the words stick out to him even now:
"You can't know, oh no, you can't know how much I think about you, no,
It's making my head spin.
Looking at you, and you are looking at me and we both know what we want,
hmmm, so close to giving in."
Listening to her sing softly, he recognizes the same song. He smiles as she hums the last few bars at the end of the first verse, but the words hit him with a different message. "Feel so nice, oh yeah you feel so nice, wish I could spend the night, but I can't pay the price, oh no, no." He senses then, the quality of her voice that he's heard so rarely that he almost doesn't know the sound of it. She's not crying, no, but she's sad, so sad. He can hear the smokiness, the husky sound that transforms her voice into something deeper. The water turns off and he freezes for a second in indecision.
Sliding back onto the bed, he turns his back to the door, curls his arm under his head, and pretends to sleep. Yet his ears are tuned towards every sound she makes; the sounds he's grown accustomed to. A swish as she pulls the towel down, wrapping it around herself gracefully. It occurs to him that he'd never been able to wrap a towel around himself as neatly as she could. He hears the sound of her pulling on jeans, a tiny snick-snick as she latches her bra, then finally the doorknob unlocking. She walks out quietly, her footsteps uncertain as she tries to guess whether he's asleep or not.
Her bare feet step to the foot of his bed, and they both know that he's awake. He rolls over, sitting up slowly, still pretending to be half-asleep. Groggy-eyed, he turns to smile at her. Something is devastatingly wrong, he can sense it immediately. Her eyes are red, and her fingers are clenched by her lips. He reaches for her, feels the ache as she pulls away, shaking her head twice. Desperation slowly grasps his heart, and his hand stretches further towards her as he pulls himself up from the bed.
She's always been strong, so strong, his rock in all the times he'd needed support. And even now, as he stares at the tear glistening down her cheek, his desire to kiss it off her skin burning against his lips, knowing he'll never, ever get that privilege again, she's strong against him. She's never been strong against him, never felt the need to resist him. She'd been strong for him, standing behind him with her arms clasped around his waist and her lips whispering sweet encouragement in his ear, and he'd known without a doubt that she was his. Now, the tear lying unkissed on her blushed cheeks, he senses a ripping within himself, or maybe more accurately in the space between the two of them. There, the soft sound of her sigh, and it's over.
"I can't anymore," she whispers.
"No," he replies, his voice shaking and his eyes widened to a point of terror.
"It's no good," the tear still not followed by even one more, but her voice cracking brutally. "I want to, but I can't stay."
"Love," he calls, watching her walk out the door. "Love," he whispers, and a single, longing glance from over her shoulder is the only response he gets.