Examining each other's
scars is such a great
ritual between new lovers. In that first night, when you are naked together, in the
hesitations and the
beginnings of
exploration, it's a wonderful excuse to lay
gentle fingers on another's skin, and ask with concerned eyes for the story behind that pale
sliver of flesh.
Or, in the quiet
exhaustion of afterwards, by
candlelight or the
beginnings of
dawn, it's another round of peeling back layers of
mystery and
telling stories, getting a glimpse of
adventures and
misfortunes.
This, oh, that was when I fell over in the
playground, aged ten, chasing
Darth Vader because I was angry about being
Princess Leia, just because I was the only girl who ever wanted to play
Star Wars. I ended up with gravel in my knee and the inability to forget Ian Short, who wanted to be Luke so that he could kiss me.
This? oh, that was when I had an evil
hangover and fell off the high stool behind the counter in the
comic shop and broke my wrist.
This long, pale ladder that stretches again and again from
knee to
waist, these interlocking lines of
ridges and
stitches, oh, that's a
another story for another time.
There is
cooing and
sympathy, there is the unravelling of tales of an unknown past. Stories bind us together, give hints of the life before and promises of the maybes of a life together.