The Tracing of a River
The scar curls around her leg, starting above the knee and ending at the ankle. It catches the lamplight, a band of gold, just as smooth as the rest of her, like the tracing of a river on a map.
He wants to ask her about it, but his words never make it past his chest. Even here, in the quiet afterwards, there’re still walls.
“I should go,” he says to her perfect back.
She shifts and makes a quiet, regretful sound that sticks in his head for years. “I wish you didn’t have to.”
Me too echoes around inside.