Partridge Tree

He wanted to go on kissing her, but he was too unsteady. Grace held his waist as he braced himself against the wall behind her.

"Take your shirt off so I can re-bandage your shoulder," she said.

"What, there's no hot bonobo sex now?"

She looked him up and down with a raised eyebrow. "I sincerely doubt you're capable of hot bonobo sex right now."

He made a show of looking around on the floor. "Maybe I'd better take those pills after all."

"Don't get cocky."

"But you just said no hot bonobo sex."

She pointed at the lid of the toilet. "Francis, just sit down and let me re-bandage your shoulder."

He sat.

Grace helped him strip off his jacket and t-shirt, then went to work on him with her cool, precise hands. Her fervent face filled his field of vision, exhausted and beautiful. This close he could see the tiny lines around her eyes and mouth, the delicate veins across her eyelids. She brought an ache to his heart.

"You need to get cleaned up," she told him as she stepped away. Debris crunched under her feet. "But we need to clean this up first."

Francis picked the bigger pieces of glass out of the sink and rinsed the rest down the drain while Grace swept the floor. Everything seemed to be happening in slow motion. As if in a trance, he filled the sink with hot water and lathered a wash cloth with soap. He washed his face, his arms, as much of his chest as he could manage. From behind him Grace took the cloth out of his hand and began to slide it over his back and shoulders. At her touch the world came into sharp focus and he felt again the pain of his shoulder and the sting of dozens of shallower cuts.

Grace reached past him to rinse the cloth in the sink. "Turn around."

When he was facing her she smoothed the cloth over his left arm and shoulder, being careful to keep the dressing dry. It was surreal to be standing so close to her, to have her touching him in this manner, in complete silence. Always they argued, bickered, sparred. Always there was that verbal barrier between them, that safety. Now he was utterly exposed and the need, the longing, he had thought would consume him eased a little.

With his good arm, he smoothed the hair at her temple. An excuse to touch her. She looked up at him and pressed a kiss against the side of his hand. He couldn't look away. It was as if she drew the light to her, as if she were somehow more vivid than anything else in the room.

"We should wash your hair, too," she said. "Can you manage on the floor again?"

He eased himself down against the tub and Grace filled a plastic bowl with warm water. She knelt beside him. "Tilt your head back."

"How am I supposed to look down your top in this position?"

"You won't be able to look down my top with shampoo in your eyes, either."

He grunted and closed his eyes as she wet his hair. Dexterous fingers massaged his scalp and warmth seeped into him where she leaned against him. Despite the cold tiles and the awkward angle of his neck, Francis could have fallen asleep right there and then. Like a lullaby, Grace murmured soft commands for him to turn his head left or right, to lean forward or back, as she rinsed away the shampoo. Her voice was low and husky with late-night exhaustion. It raised delightful goosebumps on his skin.

When she'd judged him to be sufficiently clean, she gently dried his hair with a towel. "You can open your eyes now."

The bathroom light seemed painfully bright as he squinted into it. His side felt cold after Grace turned away to hang the towel, and he rubbed at his arm.

"Have you taken anything for the pain?" she asked.

"Not yet. I will."

She nodded and then helped him stand. When she would have pulled away, he held on to her hand. She watched him in that patient, calm way she'd been looking at him since she'd walked into his bathroom, and the look undid him. "Thank you," he said. It came out hoarse and faltering, as though the words had grown rusty from disuse.

Her hand squeezed his and she smiled. "You're welcome."

It was such an ordinary exchange, almost routine, and yet it affected him profoundly. How often had he thanked her for everything she had done for him? For all the manoeuvres and excuses; the way she stood up to him and for him; for giving him so many chances. He knew that no matter how long he lived, he could never, ever repay this debt. And just as surely he knew she didn't need him to. What she gave was freely given, and that was as much a mystery to him as anything had ever been. After all this time, she was still his most enduring puzzle.

He looked down at their joined hands and then back up at her face. "Stay with me tonight. Please."

"We're not having sex tonight, Francis."

"To sleep! Is sex all you ever think about, woman?"

She shook her head at him and pulled her hand away. "I need to take a shower, change clothes."

"You can shower here. I can find something for you to change into." He was afraid he sounded desperate, needy, but he couldn't hide it from her. Everything he felt was churning too close to the surface.

She touched his cheek and he leaned into her hand, closing his eyes. If she was going to reject him he needed some small measure of protection. Instead, he felt her move into him and wrap her arms around his waist, press her face against his chest. "Okay," she said.

For a moment he was stunned that it had been so simple. That he had asked and she had agreed. No cajoling. No games. He opened his eyes and tilted her face up to his, kissed her softly. "Okay."