Page 26 of ClickBack

“That was last night. I have standards again.”

He laughs, and I kiss his shoulder before sitting up.

He gets out of bed without reaching for anything to cover himself. Daylight has introduced no concerns for this man. I pull his shirt down and follow more carefully, which he notices despite my best effort.

“Keep walking,” I say when he looks back.

He does, taking his smile with him.

In the bathroom, I close the little toilet-room door. There are intimacies I am not prepared to accelerate. By the time I come out, he has gone, and the toothbrush I opened last night waits beside the sink. I study myself in the mirror while I reach for it. One side of my bob curves neatly toward my chin. The other could use an explanation. My eyes look softer than they did yesterday, though perhaps that is simply what happens when I sleep without a knot in my forehead.

I am still brushing when Jarrett returns carrying Epsom salt.

He turns on the tub faucet, tests the temperature, and looks up to find me watching him in the mirror. I rinse before asking, “What are you doing?”

“You said you were hurting.”

He pours the salts beneath the stream. I had expected a joke about whose fault that was. I already had an answer ready. With no use for it, I stand holding my toothbrush while he adjusts the water.

“You don’t have to do all that.”

“It’s a bath, Giselle.”

“I can see that.”

He looks at the toothbrush, then at me. “You planning to take that in with you?”

I set it down. “I’m assessing the accommodations.”

“Take your time.”

The tub is long enough for him, which makes it practically a municipal facility for me. I lean against the vanity while it fills, watching him check the water again with his hand. I liked the way he touched me last night. I like watching him do something ordinary with those same hands, and the second pleasure feels less easy to account for.

“You use this much?” I ask.

“More during the season.”

“Don’t you have people for that?”

“Treatment, yeah.” He straightens. “Sometimes I want to come home and not have anybody ask me to rate how something feels.”

I think about that. There must be days when everybody who touches him wants information. How far he can extend, how much weight he can bear, whether something hurts enough to interfere with what they need him to do.

“Then I won’t ask for a satisfaction survey.”

“Appreciate it.”

He shuts off the faucet. I stand, but my fingers stop at the hem of his shirt.

“Turn around.”

He faces the vanity. No reminder of what he has already seen, no attempt to make me defend needing something different this morning. I step out of the shirt and into the bath, lowering myself until heat reaches my shoulders. The relief is immediate enough to take a sound out of me.

“Good?” he asks, still facing away.

“You may turn around.”

He leans back against the vanity. I have hidden most of myself beneath the surface while he stands there making nakedness look like a perfectly reasonable way to receive a guest. The tattoos I touched last night are clearer now. I follow one over his shoulder, curious about the place where it meets an older mark.