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As I loaded the washcloth with soap, he rested his head on the back of the tub, breathing shallowly. He was exhausted, still wincing every few seconds. On instinct, I pushed him forward slightly, and ran the cloth down his back, to the parts it would be difficult for him to reach.
“Where else?” I said.
He opened his eyes. “Hm?”
“Where else can’t you reach?”
“No.” He held out his hand to take it. “I don’t need you to do that.”
“Just let me.” I squeezed the washcloth, and the tug went lower inside me, but thank God he couldn’t see that, and thank God it was just the two of us so no one else could question why I thought this would be a good idea.
He did let me. I started with his back, then up the neck, behind the ears. At first it was weird, but then it was just... nice. Nice to see him not in pain, and, yes, nice to touch him, as it had been that night six months ago. And perhaps nicer now, since neither of us was drunk or angry or awkward.
“Thank you,” he said, lulled, his silver-blue eyes disappearing under tired lids. “This is really,” he started, and let out a shiver as I got close to under his arms. “Helpful.”
“You’re welcome,” I replied, moving to his thighs, under his knees, the underside of his calves.
Suddenly, “Sugar, Sugar” started up in my pocket. Luke flinched in the water, splashing me slightly. I laughed, and stood up, grabbing my meter and test strips from the medicine cabinet, my lance and lancelets from the shelf above the toilet.
“Do you mind if I do this?” I asked, holding up the meter.
“No,” Luke said, his eyes looking up at me. “I’ve always been curious about it, to be honest.”
“Well,” I said, washing my hands. “It’s not that exciting.”
I took my lance, poked the side of my index finger, drawing the tiniest drop of blood. I glanced at Luke. He was transfixed. I smiled.
“Now,” I said, holding up a bloody finger, “I touch the edge of the strip, and we wait.”
The air was quiet, thick with steam. I put a cotton ball on my fingertip.
“About 3.6. A little low.” I grabbed a glucose tablet and popped it in my mouth. “Tablets for nonemergencies,” I said, pointing to the bottle. “Packets for emergencies.” I pointed to the box.
“Why packets?”
I hesitated, wondering how I should put this without scaring him. “In case I’m too out of it to swallow.”
I heard him move around again, the water lapping. I opened the cabinet again, reaching the tiny notebook and pen I kept there to record my levels.
“You record the blood sugar in a notebook?” Luke said.
I nodded.
“I do that, too. I mean with my running times.” He cleared his throat. “Or rather, I used to. Anyway, guess what?” he said. “I’m going to start physical therapy tomorrow, for real. I’m going to run again if it kills me.”
I tossed the washcloth back into the water. I let out a breath. “Oh, yeah?”
“Yeah.”
I glanced at his leg. The injured part was mottled brown, scarred. Just below his right knee was a single darker scar, the size of a bullet hole.
“What, you don’t believe me?” he asked, snatching the washcloth out of the water to do the rest, splashing me.
I splashed him back, standing. “Actually, I do.”
