I reach out, slowly at first, tentatively, until I see that he’s not going to stop me. Then I reach around the back of his neck, feeling along his hairline until I find it: the thin white line he showed me that day, the one he got from trying to cut his own hair as a child. I run my thumb over the spot, only noticeable because I remember where it is, as his grasp on me tightens, his fingers digging into my hips as his eyes hold me captive. We know each other’s scars.
