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“Not happening,” I say.
Huan’s mouth immediately ticks down.
I continue, “You’re staying and listening to me.”
This is a fact I emphasize with action for Huan will try leaving any second now, so might as well launch into his arms and koala-hug his shoulders and chest as insurance he can’t. What am I doing? is a thought I think too late.
My arms circle his neck, and my legs wrap tightly around his waist. He staggers. I cling harder, leaning my weight into his body. Momentum carries us past the toilet, and I wince when Huan’s back hits the shower wall with a thump.
Trying to not fall off, my arm swoops upwards to gain more leverage and on the way…
I spank the shower button.
Cold water sputters from above, dribbling down the side of Huan’s face.
“I’m not apologizing,” I squeak, “because I planned that.”
His eyelashes clump, but he doesn’t blink. “I don't recall ever asking you to apologize.”
“Okay, but be mad later. I feel like I’m going to fall over.” The water stops spitting. Showers here are on insanely quick timers to save money.
Trying to get Huan to cooperate, I use my Pollywood manners. “Please don’t go. Please don’t leave me here alone.” My head rests on his shoulder. “I’m tired.”
Immediately, he starts lowering us to the ground. With me attached to the front of him, it should be a difficult manoeuvre. For him, it’s not. He brings us both down in one of those controlled moves someone with upper, lower, and all-around body strength can do. It makes me feel strangely precious in his arms, because of how modulated and careful the movement was.
I'm almost fully on his lap except my leg and hip adjust, so I'm more sitting on his thigh. Our noses are almost level. We turn to face each other. Dark brown versus black. I suck in a breath at the next thing Huan says. It’s so preposterous and serious at the same time.
“I’m going to ruin him.”
With a stilted flourish, I wave my hands over his head. It’s do that or indulge myself in fanciful scenarios about how Huan’s concern is pushing past the constraints of his duty. Not that I think Huan is a man who often utters, I’m going to ruin him.
If everything I know about him is true, he never does.
My hands keep twitching above his head.
He gently encircles my wrist. “What… are you doing?”
“Warding off your toxic masculinity.”
His mouth thins. “Komal. You bled. Please. I can’t be funny about this.”
“You’re never funny about anything. But hold on. Let me look something up.”
To his credit, Huan waits as I fish my cell phone out of my pocket. Neither of us mention how our sides are pressed together. For me, the nerves in those spots are caffeinated by the contact. As for Huan, his knuckles clench by his sides. And when he sees what I’m searching for from over my shoulder, an aggrieved noise echos against the walls of the shower. Guttural Mandarin wrenches out of him.
I keep scrolling, my heart beating faster.
Vaginal bleeding affects up to 9% of menstruating women.
“Komal—”
“Wait, let me read this.”
There’s info about cervical polyps, but it’s not the diagnosis I stop at.
Bleeding happens from friction during sex when there isn’t enough lubrication.
Well, okay.
