He hesitated. Don't want folks seeing, he said. There's no one out there, she replied. And I need the wind. He picked her up gently, carried her out onto the porch, and set her down on a wide bench he had padded with blankets.
The sky above was stre with the fiery oranges and purples of the setting sun. She closed her eyes, breathing in the cool evening air. She shifted after a while, her shoulder brushing his arm. It was not accidental. You ever touch a woman like this?
She asked, her voice a low, quiet murmur. He didn't move. Like what? Not out of duty. Not out of pity.
Just touch. He turned his head slowly, his eyes searching hers in the fading light. She didn't flinch. Her shirt hung open slightly at the collar, her collarbones bare, the line of her chest soft and steady. I'm not broken, she said, her voice a fierce whisper.
"Don't look at me like I'm a ghost." "I don't," he answered, his voice rough. Her hand slid across the bench and found his. She placed his palm low against her hip, against the curve of what remained of her thigh. The flesh warm, scarred, but smooth. His fingers twitched, but he didn't pull away.
I can't feel it like before, she said, but I still want it. His breath deepened. She leaned toward him slowly, her lips brushing his cheek, then lower until her mouth found his. She kissed him, not with desperation, not with speed, but with a slow, deliberate tenderness, a kiss that spoke of a deep, abiding need for connection. He kissed her back.
When they broke apart, she looked at him, her expression calm, unafraid. "You sure?" he asked, his voice a ragged whisper. "I know what I want," she said. He lifted her again, his arms strong and sure beneath her, and brought her inside. He laid her gently on the cot, his hands steady.
She unfassened her belt and let the shirt fall open. Her body was thin, curved, bruised in places, but her eyes, dark and luminous in the fire light, stayed locked on his. He undressed without shame. His own body, a map of scars, a testament to a life of hardship and survival. She reached out and touched the old bullet scar on his hip.
"You ain't the only one with ghosts," she said. That night, they lay together, a slow, deliberate coming together, not of need, but of understanding. She pressed her mouth to his chest. He kissed the scar on her thigh. When he moved over her, it was not with hunger, but with a careful, tender reverence.