The hot summer days were lingering for weeks. Although it was September, the uncomfortable warmth came early in the morning, and went late in the night. We slept with the covers off, only wearing our underwear and only our fingertips touching eachother's hand, arm, shoulder. The sun came in through the bay window over our bed, warming the baby blue sheets and our bodies, covered in beading sweat.
In those suffocating days, we dressed as light as possible, and strolled around downtown, thanking the sky for when a breeze came our way, ruffling our hair into our eyes. We usually got cheap iced coffee and lingered under the shades of trees, their wide, green leaves filtering the sun, pale green light bouncing off our shoulders, washing everything in a crisp green glow. Then we would get an inexpensive lunch, to save money, and bring it back to the apartment. Then we would spend the rest of the day sprawled on the couch, me on the floor, listening to crappy TV and soap operas and talking, talking, talking.
That was before the surgery. Now, We're both too tired to do anything.
The sun is starting to filter through our window. I have been awake for a while now. I've been studying him carefully, waiting for that one ray of sunshine that will slowly chase away the shadows on his back. He usually has a muscular back, but he's been taking a break (for obvious reasons), so he has got a little chubby at the waist, and when he wears low-waisted pants, his hips spill out on the sides. I don't mind it; it makes my legs go weak. I don't think he cares either.
His head is turned away, showing the back of his hair. I shaved it a week ago, so his hair is just starting to grow back. I used to go crazy when he had his long hair. They're the darkest shade black you can imagine, like at the far end of a cave or the bottom of the ocean. They're shiny and curly, sticking out in every direction, towards the sky and over his eyes, in big, fat curls. They would always smell clean and fresh like grass after it rained, and always a hint of the coarse smell of the coffee he always drinks. I would always run my hand through them. Straightening them out and watching them bounce back to their original form.
Now they're short, and I somehow like it even more. He could have the worst haircut to exist for all that I care, and I would still find him unbelievably beautiful.
He shifts his arm under his head, under his pillow. I watch the muscle shift in his shoulder, dimpling and creasing his skin. Mesmerized, I observe the slow rise and fall of his back. I eye the lines of his back, the two dimples in the small of it. The skin of his thighs. The soles of his feet. Down to every toe.
He grunts, shifts and stirs, then turns onto his back. Being on his stomach must have been painful. I wince for him.
His face tenses slightly before resting in a peaceful expression, his dark eyelashes spread on his cheeks, his lips parted. His cheeks are round, his forehead is spiked by a widow's peak. The line of his jaw is delicate. He doesn't like it. There's a scar cutting his right eyebrow in half. My eyes linger on it, then away. His throat is soft and missing an Adam's apple. He has a line of light hair, invisible from afar, down his stomach, darker under his belly button. I like to put my hand in the dip before the curves of his hips start. He hates them too. They're too wide, he says.
I like to graze fluttering fingers over the pink and purple scars on his bruised chest, where his breasts used to be.
