There’s a scar on his left hand, curving around his middle finger. He won’t tell her where it came from.
The sheets are tangled around their legs and the CD has just finished. All they can hear, faint and somewhat eerie, is a cat yowling into the dark a few streets away. She thinks it must be in pain. He wonders if it’s on heat. They both want more music to slide around the amber lit room, but neither want to unlock their limbs and let go.
She has a scar under her chin. It’s thin as a blade and pale as moonlight. He noticed it the night they met. He bought her a whiskey and the thought of someone reaching out to her, of a sharp blade on a heated night, made his fists clench. She’d been in his life for an hour and already he knew three of her smiles: shy with the downward head tilt, lips pursed with first night teasing, and the pointed teeth showing through ruby lips as her hand pressed on her chest with laughter and she whispered to herself yes, yes, I think I want this.
He broke his wrist when he was seventeen and it never really set right. There’s a small lump of bone that curves in an arc, and she runs her mouth over it. She knows there was red wine and heartache, shattered glass and broken promises. She doesn’t want to know the girl’s name.
He knows she stepped on a jagged shell when she was ten and the bright blood swirling on the sand kept her mesmerized until the grown ups came. He traces his fingers over the faded scar on the sole of her foot and watches the shiver travel down her curled spine.
The stories written on their bodies are still being read; a paragraph on the swell of a hip, a line etched into the curve of a calf. They’re turning the pages slowly, reading tales in bone and flesh, hiding some under the skin until the time is right and the heart is ready.
There’s a scar on his left hand, curling around his middle finger. He won’t tell her where it came from.
A little slice of fiction on a rainy night.