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leave you blind

“Fuck it.” He slips off his shoes and socks, and gingerly climbs in beside me. Gently, he wraps his arm around me, and I lay my head on his chest. He kisses my hair.“I don’t think Nurse Nora will be very happy with this arrangement,” he whispers conspiratorially.I giggle, then stop as pain lances through my chest. “Don’t make me laugh. It hurts.”“Oh, but I love that sound,” he says a little sadly, his voice low. “I’m sorry, baby, so, so sorry.” He kisses my hair again and inhales deeply, and I don’t know what he’s apologizing for . . . making me laugh? Or the mess we’re in? I rest my hand over his heart, and he gently places his hand on mine. We are both silent for a moment.

Wow. I smile broadly as I climb back into bed. He pulls over the tray on wheels and lifts the cover to reveal my breakfast: oatmeal with dried fruits, pancakes with maple syrup, bacon, orange juice, and Twinings  English breakfast tea. My mouth waters; I’m so hungry. I down the orange juice in a few gulps and dig into the oatmeal.He sits down on the edge of the bed to watch. He smirks.“What?” I ask with my mouth full.“I like to watch you eat,” he says. But I don’t think that’s what he’s smirking about. “How are you  feeling?”“Better,” I mutter between mouthfuls.“I’ve never seen you eat like this.”I glance up at him, and my heart sinks. We have to address the very tiny elephant in the room. “It’s because I’m pregnant.”
He snorts, and his mouth twists into an ironic smile. “If I knew getting you knocked up was going to make you eat, I might have done it earlier.”

“You’ll try, and you’ll succeed. And let’s face it; you don’t have much choice in the matter, because Blip and I are not going anywhere.”“Blip?”“Blip.”He raises his eyebrows. “I had the name Junior in my head.”“Junior it is, then.”“But I like Blip.” He smiles his shy smile and kisses me once more.

His gray eyes are bleak but penitent. “Let’s get you undressed.” His voice is soft. I wipe my nose with the back of my hand, and he kisses my forehead once more.
Briskly he strips me, taking particular care as he pulls my T-shirt over my head. But my head is not too sore. Leading me to the shower, he peels off his own clothing in record time before stepping into the welcome hot water with me. He pulls me into his arms and holds me, holds me for the longest time, as the water gushes over us, soothing us both.

 ''Let me look at you,” he says, and for a moment I don’t know what he means. But he takes my hand and examines the arm . There are bruises on my shoulder and scrapes at my elbow and wrist. He kisses each of them. He grabs a washcloth and shower gel from the rack, and the sweet familiar scent of jasmine fills my nostrils.
“Turn around.” Gently, he proceeds to wash my injured arm, then my neck, my shoulders, my back, and my other arm. He turns me sideways, and traces his long fingers down my side. I wince as they skate over the large bruise at my hip. His eyes harden and his lips thin. His anger is palpable as he whistles through his teeth.
He squirts more shower gel on the washcloth and with tender, aching gentleness, he washes my side and my behind, then, kneeling, moves down my legs. He pauses to examine my knee. He lips brush over the bruise before he returns to washing my legs and my feet. Reaching down, I caress his head, running my fingers through his wet hair.  He wraps me in a large towel and drapes one around his hips while I gingerly dry my hair. My head aches, but it’s a dull persistent pain that is more than manageable. 

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