It's a familiar burning through my muscles and skin. This time it is liberating and uplifting. It's innocent, and it doesn't spread to my heart.
That's cause it wasn't caused by her presence as usual. This is simple workout. Simple Detective Jane Rizzoli time, hell yeah.
My body should be tired by now, but I still don't feel it. It will hit me any time. Not yet. Now, I feel like I could jump so high, I'd hit a giraffe in the face so hard its spots will fall off. Maura would tell me that's impossible. Maura would tell me it's the adrenaline. I know, but I don't have the heart to stop her. It seems she lives and breathes and feeds off her little geeky moments, and if she likes it, I'm not complaining. She can shower me with facts as much as she wants.
Speaking of shower, I need one now. I discard my top and sweats and remain only with a black piece of fabric below my waist. No, I don't wear a bra working out, if you were wondering where that went. The mirror image of me smiles back. I still got it! The scars are there, of course, but if it weren't for them, it would seem like no time has passed. I don't give make up and fancy clothes a single thought, but this look I'm proud of. This makes me feel great. So great I want to move again.
I drop to the floor and raise myself on my hands and feet. My body straightens effortlessly. Biceps contracts and triceps relaxes, then vice versa. I want to keep count but I lose it. There burning comes again, and I know there will be soreness in the morning. Worth it.
When I get up, my underwear flies into the laundry basket and I get in. It takes a while for me to decide whether I want a cold shower or a hot one. I try the hot one but my body is already too heated up. I can't stand it. I turn one of the handles back and the stream is now far more pleasant. Temperature in the middle of the north pole and the equator. I let my hair free from the band and it soaks. The bottle in the corner is the only thing here that I've actually paid attention to when buying. The rest are from random store racks with random scents. That bottle, the bottle is Maura's shower gel. Not the same bottle, no, but the same kind. I've been using it ever since I noticed hers in the bathroom and managed to track it down and get it for myself. And it's been a while. But it's still not "my gel", it still smells like Maura. It's still sort of a guilty pleasure.
Sometimes I wonder if she notices. She must have. Does anything go past her?
Most of the time, I don't care if she does.
And I know how much of the stuff gets made, and that they produce tons and probably in different places, they package on separate days and ship different batches to different stores. But in my head, that drop of gel now in my palm could have been mixing with the drop that has spread on Maura's shoulders and back, gone through her hands, touched her where I never can. And it feels pathetic and dumb but also kind of warm and I feel so good right now and there's no space for any guilt.
Shortly, I'm clean.
My brain feels it's time to compartmentalize the senses, yes. I feel like I've trained it. My hands on my skin are just somebody else's, touching it, and the skin below my palms feels like I'm not its owner. I close my eyes and now there are two bodies. The skin I touch is her skin and the fingers that touch me are her fingers. They play their game. They move where I want them. They leave me openmouthed and gasping, muscles clenching. I feel somebody else's muscles wrapping around my own fingers, as if they'd never let go.
When I look, it's all gone. It's only me, in the shower, rinsing my hands, then stepping out, defeated. I feel the fatigue a rumble in my stomach start their separate attacks.
Should I grab a bite?
Should we grab a bite?
I look around and my mind is not made up. I decide that my watch will settle it, and I look for it to check it. It's not on the nightstand, or in the pants that lie thrown on a chair, so I search for my phone. The digits blink up and I still can't find an answer. My finger lingers over her name on the screen.
I can kill someone. I have killed someone. I can shoot myself. I have shot myself. I'd tackle and fight and jump and attack and it won't be a big deal and I'd still be up for some more action. But the courage evaporates the second I want to ask her out. Because it doesn't ask for my strong side, my skills and strength. It doesn't ask for the things I've done and known. Because the doors in me she opens lead to undiscovered places nobody has ever stuck a flag in. Because the feelings she brings out are uncharted territory and because my voice falters and my knees weaken and I'm still staring at the screen scared as hell. It's not a date, I repeat to myself. You're asking her for a casual dinner like you always have.
A shiver runs through me and I don't know if it's the draft on my bare skin or another of the sensations the mere thought of her makes me feel.
There's a button that would lock the screen and a button that would make the call. My loud sigh emerges as the only sound in the room before I take my pick.