My right cheek is bruised. The permanent blush of my cheeks cause the blue to blend, creating only a hint of injury, night-purple like a shadow. It is only when I touch my cheekbone that I hurt as if something's been broken.
Nothing has.
The bruise, more sore today than yesterday, or the day before, was caused by a playful wrestle on my bed with my lover--both of us vying to lie next to the wall, because it's safer on the inside, deceptively so.
Her head crashed into my bone. Hard. It's amazing how quickly sound stops when someone's been injured unintentionally. There's a moment of stopped breath, a moment where the whole path of actions leading to the one second of impact is played out in the mind of all parties involved. And then, without conclusion, the world is busy and loud again.
Can I get you anything? Do you need some ice? Is your nose bleeding.
No, no, and no. It's okay. Let's lie down.
I'm so sorry.
I know, baby. It's okay.
And then we crawled into bed, and by right of injury, I slept by the wall with her back against my stomach, my arms around her. Both of us fortified.
We napped that afternoon, for an hour, or so, both of us listening to the other's breathing to fall asleep. When she finally falls, her body jerks as if caught in a dream of running, or flying, or falling beyond falling to sleep. I imagine her dreams involve chasing, although I've never thought to ask what she dreams in that first REM cycle of sleep.
This weekend was a deepening for us. I think we both encountered, at different moments, in different ways, how easy it is to fall when you trust.
And how safety is more often in the mind than in the place you stand.