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You bumped me back to start. Playing games at our holiday parties was a tradition we stayed true to, and Sorry! was always a good way to offset the holiday spirit. After all, what was better than seeing a face of terror when drawing a ‘Sorry!’ card? It was only a few more rounds until one of our friends won, and I quickly cleaned up the game and replaced it with silverware and napkins. You joined me in the kitchen as I began to fill our guests’ bowls, pressed up against my back. “Fuck, that smells good.” You murmured, dragging your hand down the side of my hip. “I know.” I smirked, ladling a spoonful of alfredo sauce onto a serving of pasta. “It’s a good holiday food. Plus, I know you like it, so.” I turned around, a bowl in each of my hands, and smiled up at you. “Now, give me a hand, yeah?” I requested, tilting my head up to plant a soft kiss on your lips. You kept your hands at my hips, holding me in place as you returned my gesture, half-grinding against me. I turned my head. She needs water. She can not see. She is uncomfortable, this barely breathing cadaver. A tissue of skin. A scaffold of bone with her wild white hair, her jaundice, her rising scent of decomposition. She is aware of her helpless state, her parched lips and ancient form, but she is cut off from the world. It has been years since she could communicate, compose intelligible sounds… She can only lie here as she is, judge time from the shadows inside her unseeing eyes. Her back is stiff. That back of hers, she moves to speculate, must be speckled with age by now- the skin would be mottled and creased and thinned out like tissue paper. But who ever sees their own back? You never plan on it changing. There are bits of your body you carry around all your life but never really own. She supposes that if anyone owned her back, it was her late husband, as he was the only one ever to see it regularly. Even in old age she thinks of her husband at least once every day- something will rear up and.
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