Some moments instantly become memories. 

This summer I nearly burnt my house down. My hands were bandaged fingers to forearm for weeks, and I was, of course, unable to shower alone. My man and I took our first shower together in this time. The First Shower is supposed to be ultra-sexy and a bit porny, hands all over each other, mouths exploring, water making skin sensitive and organs wet. For our First Shower I stood arms up, useless hands resting against tiled wall and shower curtain, trying to keep the bandages dry. He sweetly soaped and cleaned my body and the combination of pain killers and self pity and helplessness and frustration made it very very hard not to cry. 

I'm a proud woman and I didn't want to cry in front of this new lover, body soaper. Luckily when you cry in the shower the streaming water camouflages your tears so as long as you're not ugly-crying, as long as you're keeping quiet, you can hide it, easy. 

I felt like a defeated boxer, arms up, waiting for a brotherly trainer to unlace my gloves. 

And this is how we began. Me, the ex-fighter. He, the un-lacer. Me, the bittersweet defeated. He, the caregiver. 

The bandages have been off for months now, and the scars have almost disappeared. I try to keep the boxing gloves off as well, but sometimes, the old meanness, the old fear comes out and I lace up. And he always, always, unlaces me.