Restoration

8. Bang

The days after my counseling session dragged on, and James persisted in playing the martyr, slinking about our house like some sort of over-sized, bald-headed wraith. It wasn't until Friday evening that he broke the silence.

"Patience, can you please give me a shave?"

He stood before me expectantly, his face clouded with undisclosed emotion. I nodded and followed him to our bathroom.

Shaving times were a sacred communion between us, and this felt even more true today as James took a seat in front of the mirror and draped a towel about his neck. I couldn't explain why we both approached these times with reverence, no matter our feelings towards each other. Perhaps it was James' entrusting my hands to his body and my acknowledgement of it.

I dampened another towel under a stream of hot water and massaged his head with it. Peering at our reflection, I saw his eyelids droop and his shoulders loosen. As much as I hated to admit it, I loved his body – how it moved, how his muscles bunched with power, how these same muscles relaxed at my touch. And, at the heart of it all, I loved him, didn't I?

I stopped my ministrations and moved to lather his head with shaving cream. I inhaled the dark scent as I began my careful sculpting on his skin. I worked in silence, but our understanding vibrated between us.

After handling his whole head, I toweled him off and began again, this time shaving in the opposite direction.

"I have counseling on Wednesdays now, too."

His voice shattered the stillness, and my hand twitched in response.

"Shit! Dammit, Patience."

A line of red grew where the razor had been.

"J-James, I'm sorry. I -."

What could I say? How could I be so foolish and desecrate the only holy ground we had?

"Patience!"

He rose from his seat, and I backed away. Thunderclouds had descended in his now-inky eyes.

"Patience. Patience. Patience."

He breathed deeply, uttering my name gentler than the time before. With a sigh, he pinched the bridge of his nose.

"I shouldn't have gotten angry."

"I shouldn't have cut you. I'm sorry. You startled me."

I clutched the razor for dear life, praying my apology would appease him. His gaze was calculating as we stood there in silence.

"Come finish and please try not to behead me this time." He chuckled, but there was an unmistakable venom to his voice.

I wanted to leave him to finish it himself – my slipup and his response frayed my nerves in an instant. I knew I didn't have that option, though. Once James was seatedagain, I wiped away the dribble of blood from the back of his neck, pressed apiece of toilet paper against the cut and resumed. When I carefully moved my hand away to tackle the next section, he began to speak.

"As I was saying, I'll be attending counseling on Wednesdays."

I knew this. Damond had filled me in. I said nothing, though.

"It's called 'batterer intervention'. I'll be going to Indy for it. It runs for 6 months. It's to help, uh, ab-. Men like me."

His voice was tight at the end. I glanced up at our reflection, and he looked away after a moment, his face stained a light red. He was so confusing – was he contrite?

"You likely hate me, don't you?" he laughed tensely.

I didn't – I couldn't, as much as I felt I should. I almost hated myself for not hating him, but try as I might, there was an alarmingly large part of me that just wanted things to be how I thought they would be before I came to the States.