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.