He had a broad scar that ran over the back of his kneecap. The skin was all shiny and soft, like white bread packaged in Saran Wrap.
I kissed it and I asked him how it happened. He mumbled. His face was pressed into the pillow. I think he’d been sleeping awhile.
A month or so later, who knows, I was kissing another man in that position. I looked for the shiny white scar on the back of his knee. I felt really strange when it wasn’t there, like I had willed for his body to hurt him, like my memory had punished him for being someone else.
I kissed the soft skin where there was no scar. I looked up at the peeling paint along the ceiling. I smiled at the ceiling. I said, look at that. You’re healed. He turned his head, pretending that he didn’t hear me.
