The First Time After

The first time after hospital is good. Long, slow, careful. A shuddering orgasm that lasts for ages, unfolding and unfolding and unfolding. He drinks in the smell of her as he comes – familiar, acute. He hasn’t smelled much except disinfectant and flowers for weeks. He breathes her in, and feels like he’s melting into her.

Afterwards, he’s tired. They lie on their backs, legs tangled. It feels like it did before. Everything feels like it did before, more or less. Which strikes him as a miracle. He was open, for a while. Opened up, gloved hands reaching through ribs. Opened up and put back together as best they could, haphazard, sealed with thread. And yet he works, just as he did before. He runs a hand over his stitches and the holds up his fingers to check for blood. Nothing.

His hand is framed against the skylight above his head. Up above, way up there, planes are stitching vapour trails across the sky, back and forth, north and south. He lowers his hand. Watches them. How blue the sky is. How quiet.

For a moment he’s aware of the world. All these interconnecting systems. The people up there, flying planes, the people down here, living lives. All of them seem to exist on the same skin. Just for a second. The terrible, beautiful complexity of it all. As intricate as a body.

She sits up. Cross-legged. Naked. Flushed pink and still breathing heavily. “How do you feel?” she says.

He searches for an explanation. Finds none. She bends to kiss him and then swings herself out of bed and pads through to the bathroom. He hears her peeing. The running of the tap. Domestic sounds. Quite familiar, and yet this time they seem like part of a song. He doesn’t notice he’s crying until just a second or two before she returns. Quickly he swipes his face, swallows a sob.

She comes back. Holds him. If she notices the tears she doesn’t say anything. They go on, both of them, just as they did before.