The bed was wide; the sheets fresh and cool. I watched as she unbuttoned my shirt. She took it off carefully, slipping it over the thick bandage.
“Does it hurt?” she whispered. I shook my head. She unwrapped the outer dressing, then the white pad underneath. I sat on the edge of the bed as she peeled off the final layer of gauze. She turned the hand gently and winced when she saw the run of stitches.
“I told you,” I said. “It looks worse than it is.”
She kissed my wrist, open palm, then each of my fingers. I lay back in bed. She brought in a pitcher of warm water and washed my hand. Then she found some fresh gauze and rewrapped it. I tried to speak, but she touched my lips with her finger and slipped away again. In the darkness, I heard a whisper of cotton, the rustle of silk. Then she was back, strong hands running down my chest and across my stomach, tugging at whatever clothes remained between us. She kissed me lightly at first, tracing the wounds on my face, licking the skin dry. I watched as she slid up on top of me and leaned back in a column of blue light. She kept her eyes closed and began to work up and down, moving in slow circles, gripping first my shoulders, then leaning forward and bracing herself against the headboard. I matched her rhythm and felt myself fill her. She made a stirring sound in her throat. Neither of us made another until the end when she raked my skin with her nails and cried out softly. Then she was back beside me, breath tickling my cheek, heart drumming against my chest. I kissed the curve of her neck. She put two fingers to my lips and rolled over so her back was to me. Then she took my bandaged hand and drew it across her stomach. And that’s how we fell asleep.