Healing

"I caught them.....in our apartment. I didn't want to think about the messages on her phone. I trusted her. I am so fucking stupid." He says this with his pointer and index fingers pressed to his temple. I murmur a sound that is meant to be sympathetic and I nod, but he isn't looking at me. His eyes are closed.
Our coffee cups are facing each other. I am on my third cup of tea because I'm nervous and not quite sure what to do with my hands. The steam rolls off the curved edge of the mug and I count the chips in the rim. He is on his first cup and it sits cold and still in the white ceramic.
"I just can't see myself getting into a relationship again. I try to. I try to connect, but I just can't. It's so hard."
I wanted to say the same thing. I wanted to tell him that anytime someone touches me, it feels like I'm brushing up against razor wire. I wanted to tell him that my stomach feels like it's crammed full of wet cement and when a stranger says hello, it creeps up in my throat. I wanted to tell him about the knife in my drawer and that the last time I slept was two days ago and that was only because it had been three days before that. I bite my thumbnail instead.
"I am so sorry." I mean it when I say it and I hope it sounds genuine, but his mouth is in the shape of a cupid's bow and the hair around his ear curls into a perfect c and I can't help but think about how beautiful it is.
The left side of his mouth tilts upward. "You know what would go great in this?" He motions toward his cold cup. My tongue is heavy, but I raise my eyebrow to indicate that I'm listening while he shuffles through his pockets. I see a glint of silver and he pulls out a flask. He grabs my half empty cup and fills it to the brim. He drinks the rest of the flask's contents straight from the container.
We continue our talk for awhile. I listen to him talk about her and I run my fingers through my hair, self-conscious about how short it is. I cut it myself and it's uneven. But it's easier this way. nondescript. Boyish. There are no cat calls, no double takes from strangers. I like it this way. It feels greasy in my hands. I wasn't expecting company. I wonder if my shirt is too big and I wonder if he notices that my stomach is bloated. I wanted to tell him that it has been hurting for days, but my mouth feels like gravel. His eyes are green and soft; like moss after it rains.

When he kisses me, I do not expect it. When he kisses me, it feels foreign. His tongue does not intrude, his teeth do not bite, his hands are polite; they do not grab at the inside of my thighs. Instead, they rest under my chin. They are gentle and soft. They ask for permission. I press my forehead against his lips. They feel like the wind.
I do not feel my hands wrap around his when I pull him into my room. I am watching my body from above. I am acting outside of myself. I fumble when I try to turn on my lamp. My hands are shaking.
The room is filled with harsh, white light. I don't own a lampshade. There are boxes stacked in the corner and black, ten-gallon trash bags bulging, squatting by the door. A shoe box lid full of ripped pictures rests by my foot and I quickly kick it across the room. I am embarrassed. This isn't right. This is a mess. I open my mouth to speak. I wanted to tell him about the bruises and the bounced check, but the only thing that came out was, "I'm sorry..."
He raises his eyebrow. For a moment, I think he is going to ask me what I'm running from. He kisses me instead. His hands travel up the sides of my torso. I can feel my skin pucker. I'm not used to touching that is soft like this. He pulls my shirt off -men's, extra large- and I pretend that I'm wearing white lace. His mouth travels to the tip of my breast and I can feel his tongue pulsating. I can feel his lips tighten; hungry. I pretend my hair is long. I feel his hands travel to the top of my jeans and he slides them off smoothly, expertly and he kisses me again; harder this time. I wanted to ask him if the front door was locked- just in case- but my mouth is full. My body is getting lighter and lighter and I pretend that I am flying. I feel like the sunset.
His penis is stiff. I take it in my hands to study. The skin is taught and filled with blood. I kiss the splotches of purple blooming around the veins and pretend I'm picking orchids. His moan stifles my laugh. I feel my vulva swell, wet and welcoming. I arch my back and wrap my legs around his waist.
He enters me slowly and easily. My body accepts him and opens wider. I can feel the head of his penis nudging inside and it feels warm and there is a river flowing between my legs. He thrusts and kisses me. His eyes are green.
This feels- not like love, but something else. It feels like medicine. It feels like peroxide on a scraped knee; like numbing cream on cutting teeth or an ice cube on a grease burn. It feels like the first day you can breathe out of your nose after a sinus infection. It feels better.
"Are you okay?" His voice is crumpled paper and his eyebrows knit together. He catches a tear that has slid down to the corner of my mouth. I want to laugh. I want to hug him. I want to say yes. Oh my god. Yes. Yes. Yes. Because for the first time since I can remember, my body doesn't feel like an open wound.