1943. Shanghai. A soldier of the Japanese Army happens by a club one night purely out of boredom. What he expects to find are uncouth drunks. He actually meets a beautiful African-American performer by the name of Beatrice. Throughout the next three...
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niijuu-go
twenty-five
The light of the sun flashed bright into her face and she groaned, trying to turn her head away. With a sigh, she slowly forced herself up into a sit. It was quiet, the peace of pale light and silence, birds singing early morning odes. Lifting her hands to rub her eyes, she yawned. A sleepy gaze found him sitting at the table. He'd removed his prosthesis. His uniform shirt and his pants. The sight of him in a sleeveless tank and briefs woke her up and she took her time getting out of bed. Watching as he reached into a bowl, her hands lifted across his shoulders, causing him to grow still.
"Morning, sugar." She spoke drowsily, leaning down to hug him.
"Good morning," His voice was even raspier and husky from the morning and she smiled against him, her lips pressing against his neck.
"You hungry?"
"Partially." Pulling away from him, she observed as he lifted the rag and wrung out most of the water, slathered with suds.
"I'll order some breakfast for us."
"That won't be necessary." He said, starting to clean his skin.
"And why won't it?"
"I'll eat while I'm out." Swallowing, she lifted her arms above her head to stretch.
"And where is it you think you're gonna go?"
"I'll find somewhere." Pursing her lips, she rolled her eyes.
"It's too early in the morning for your shenanigans." Swiping the rag from his hand she let it plop back into the bowl and removed it from the table. Wordless, he watched her refill the bowl with water at the appropriate temperature and amount of soap.
"If you gon clean it, clean it right." Returning to the table, she placed the bowl back down with a slight huff.
"Beatrice.."
"Hush." She said, wringing out the rag. Nice and soapy, she knelt below him, propped up on her knees. He seemed stunned as she began to gently wash the residual limb. At the contact, he jerked, the limb lifting away from her.
"I...I can do it on my own. I don't need your help."
"I know you can," She said, ignoring the stutter and embarrassment in his voice. Laying a warm palm against him, she softly brought his leg back towards her.
"You haven't been cleaning it as good as you should be."
"Bea..."
"Don't complain. A man lets his woman care for him." At that, his cheeks grew warm and rosy.
