The sky had darkened to a velvety blue and, against it, the laurel leaves were as black as thorns. I lay on my back, naked save for my kilt, and trying not to think too hard about the bloodshed, the dampness inside me, and everything that I’d lost. He stroked my arm, said my name. I felt raw to the touch, even there—as if a layer of my skin had been stripped away, along with the essential membrane. I began to cry. He was very kind. He took me in his arms and made his apologies, letting me wipe my tears on his shirtfront, as on that first day. Though disheveled—his shirttails out, his trousers unbuckled—he was dressed, and I was grateful for this; I didn’t think I could stand to feel his skin against mine, so soon after the fact. It wasn’t long until my eyes were dry again, though my voice was mournful as I broke away to ask him, “Are we lovers now?” “You make it sound like a death sentence,” he laughed bitterly. “No, we don’t have to be. Not if it hurts you. This was bliss for me, but I don’t want to hurt you any more than I already have.”
