Ready? Not a question. She knew he was steeling his nerve. At the kitchen table, where the light was good, where she paid bills, cleared meals, folded towels, towel clutched at her throat, she closed her eyes. His hand on her shoulder. Steadying himself? He tilted her chin back, pressed her head against the paunch of his belly. His touch, the feel of it fumbling almost sent her back thirty years to a November night. Cold. He slid his finger into the crook of her thumb, eyes straight ahead. Oh, the thrill! She winced. Warm metal on her forehead. Loud lulling, threatening a mechanical wasp. Was she sweating? Flickers of hair skittered down her cheek. How must he feel? Women’s hair. It should only be cut and handled in the hallowed halls of a salon, or perhaps behind bathroom doors. They were in forbidden territory. He started at the base of her skull. Her skin crawled. A stray hair sucked up into her nostril. She sputtered. He stopped, stepped back. She swallowed and returned her head to the shelf of his stomach. His fingertips, strong and hot against her cheek, tugged her left ear forward, pinching her anniversary diamond. His stomach growled. She’d fix supper when they were through. Her kids would call later. They didn’t know about this decision. This important ‘step.’ It was none of their business. She decided the fate of her own body. To a point… And the boys? Nervous, anxious. So unlike their father. They would pace. Exclaim only the brightest, most successful prognoses. As if somehow failure could be avoided. As if somehow a mistake had been made. He flicked a hair with his fingernail. “Do you want a mirror?” She flinched. A chuckle throaty, sharp. He stammered. A cruel irony that couldn’t be helped. His lips, dry and tentative, touched the bare skin of her skull. A prolonged kiss. A kiss that could have been patronizing. A father’s kiss. Except that it wasn’t. It was a kiss of benediction. A kiss of hope. A kiss to seal the work he’d done. He would cry if she did. She knew it. His breath was already catching against her shoulder blades. I love you. I’m sorry. She was finished. She shooed him into the den to watch news. She shook out the towel and pulled out the broom. -Mark J. Royse April 13, 2013
