The Man (3/?)

We keep up the soft chatter for the pretense is dying down as the time to lower the shields closes in. I take off my shirt and fold it over the chair. Jo hugs me from behind, kissing the back of my neck and running her hands soothingly over my chest and sides. I hold on to her hands; treasuring her smell and feel - Jo - my mantra to sanity, to coping, to living. I can feel Jo lifting her head as her hands still. I know what Jo is doing: she is looking at my back, or rather at the dark jagged scar that runs halfway across my back to end at my left side perilously close to the heart.

I flinch. I hate the scar unconditionally - I hate all its connotations of a violent brutal and unforgiving past that we have tried desperately to leave behind. And apparently unsuccessfully.

That night is seared into my memory - I dream of it all some nights. One reason that I do not seek dreams. It was a humid night when you could just sit at one place and still sweat profusely. I had to protect a key informer who had been found out by the wrong people. And word was that the safehouse would be attacked soon. I was the closest operative and had instructions to stay with the witness till the safehouse could be secured.

To Be Continued...(in other words, my muse has fled).