Her room is bare. A mattress, a lamp, a sundress over the back of a chair.

She undoes the dress and lets it fall, and it is the first time since the operation that a body doesn't make you close your eyes.

SayaYou don't have to be careful. I'm not made of anything fragile.

You put your hands on her and she is warm and whole, and you almost cry into her shoulder.

She doesn't let you be gentle for long. She hooks a leg over your hip and says your name once, in a voice that is not rehearsed.

Afterwards she lies still with your hand flat on her chest, counting something under her ribs.