[2 June 2010]

Ruth's asleep. She's been going to bed at nine every night since I got here on Sunday. Her body's still recovering and her physiotherapy sessions tire her out, I think. On my first few nights here, I fell asleep early too, no doubt, catching up on some much needed rest, but tonight I find it's a little early for me.

Life with Ruth is as wonderful as I've always thought it would be. We fit together so well, have so many interests in common, despite her amnesia, that it hasn't been hard at all to find things to talk about or do together. It's odd how many things she remembers, poems, plays, books she's read, music. She can still read fluently in many more languages than I and can play the piano beautifully even with one hand. And yet she doesn't remember who she is, though she knows she doesn't like pickles and oranges, but loves olives and peaches. The specialist she saw last week told her that it's her brain's way of protecting her from the trauma, both of the recent accident, but in Ruth's case, I suspect, it's also the pain of losing her father and all she's suffered since. The doctor seems to think that her memory will return when she's strong enough to deal with everything that's happened, and I can't help hoping that it's not any time soon.

In the mean time, I am enjoying her as much as possible, spending practically every minute of my day with her. We kiss a lot and cuddle on the sofa and it's wonderful. And though I worry sometimes about what the future holds for us if she discovers what I've done, most of the time I endeavour to just savour the freedom I have to love Ruth and to enjoy every moment I spend in her company. I am enjoying looking after her very much and I sometimes still find it hard to believe that she's willingly relying on me and letting me help her. The first night was a little awkward for both of us, but it's surprising how quickly she's come to trust me and how comfortable we are around each other now.

On my first night here, there was nothing worth watching on the telly so I suggested that I read to her. I chose a dog-eared book from the shelf by her bed, thinking that it's probably one of her favourites. It was Persuasion by Jane Austen, and though I've never really liked Austen, I'd never read this particular novel of hers, so it seemed like a good choice. When I came back downstairs, Ruth was lying on the sofa, so I gently lifted up her feet and sat beside her, placing them on my lap and rubbing them with my free hand as I began to read.

We didn't get very far before I noticed she was almost asleep, so I suggested that she go to bed. She tensed then and I could see something was troubling her, so I asked her what it was. In the past, I would never have done that, not unless it was about work, but she's different now, more open and direct. Except in this instance. It took some time and patience on my part to figure out that what was bothering her was the thought of me changing the dressings covering her surgical incisions and the idea that I would see them and think her unattractive.

"Ruth," I replied a little abruptly perhaps when I finally realised how simple the problem appeared to be, "you're alive. You're here with me. That's all I care about. Nothing else matters." She didn't look convinced by my rather exasperated outburst, nor did my reassurances that I love her and will always think she's beautiful entirely remove her doubts, but then I suddenly had an idea. I got up and removed my shirt and vest before turning towards her and kneeling beside her on the floor. Then I proceeded to show her and tell her about every one of the scars I carry on my body, though only the ones on my chest, back and arms were visible to her. When I'd finished, her eyes were filled with tears, but she quickly brushed them away and smiled. Then, with my heart in my mouth, I asked one of the most loaded questions of my life. "Do you still find me attractive, Ruth?"

"Yes," she whispered and reached her hand towards me, sensually trailing her fingertips over my skin. "I think you're very attractive."

"Good," I replied and stood up, desperate to get away from her touch lest my body betray just how much I was enjoying it. It's too soon for that. "Now let's go upstairs."

That first night, I helped her in any way she asked. I changed her dressings, helped her undress and take a sponge bath. I dried her and helped her put on her pyjamas, and once she was in bed, I gave her her painkillers and read some more of Persuasion to her. I wasn't planning to sleep in her bed that night. My body was quite aroused by all that I'd seen and helped her do that night, and I didn't think I'd be able to sleep beside her. But I was exhausted and I fell asleep next to her, fully clothed on top of the covers, and when I woke up the next morning with her still wrapped safely in my arms, I felt on top of the world.

Tonight, in addition to everything else, I helped her wash her hair and it was easily one of the most enjoyable things I've ever had to do. After I'd finished, I dried it for her and brushed it, and all the while I could see her smiling softly in the mirror as she sat at her dressing table and watched me. When I asked her why she was smiling, she replied, "Because you're happy. I like to see you happy. I get the feeling that it doesn't happen often." And it's true. I've never been happy before. Not like this.