The Scent of Your Breath

Thirty-four

Lying on my stomach on the bed, my face suffocating in the pillow, I put my arms behind my head and slowly start to braid my hair.

“Holy Monday, Holy Tuesday, Holy Wednesday, Holy Thursday…,” I murmur.

I braid it slowly and diligently, taking tiny bunches of hair between my fingers.

I think that if I do this before she does, nothing will happen to me.

My body is arched, my arms hurt because of the position I have assumed, like a spider trapped in its own web.

I tress five or six bunches of hair, run my fingertip along the plait, and feel it, smooth, hard, and very small.

I tell myself that this way she can’t hurt me.

But suddenly I think of him, and I think he’s exposed to danger, too.

What if the dragonfly came tonight and tressed his hair? He’d be bound to her forever and I’d never be able to have him back, not even if I cut myself into tiny, tiny little pieces and slipped under his shoes.

So, at night, I will cuddle up next to him and when he shuts his eyes I will lightly, silently, braid his hair.

And he will be safe. We will be safe.