Why does she do it?
My eyes dance over her as her own flit over me. I try not to look at her wrists, but they are so there. They have colour, texture, depth. Life.
A shameful irony.
"What are you thinking?" she smiles, a goddess granting my wishes.
"About you," I half-lie.
She heaves a dry laugh, "And?" I can tell she's nervous too.
"About how beautiful you are." The second lie comes easier. Not that she isn't, but just that my mind is occupied elsewhere. Those wrists have borne so much, and now I add my thoughts to their burden.
She blushes, the pink on her cheeks, and slashed over her wrists, the only colour about her. "What part?"
"All of it." A third lie. Shouldn't there be a rooster crowing now, or something?
"I love you, Eff," she whispers, pale lips parting gently.
"I love you too, Onley," I reply in an equally hushed tone.
Finally, some truth.
She leans closer and wraps her arms about me, a tight embrace. I reciprocate, and we sit there a few moments in each other's arms, warm breath caressing our necks.
But then I feel it: one of her wrists has become warmer under the sleeve, the fabric slowly growing moist.
Her most recent battle breaking, again.
I ignore it just as she does.