Scar Tissue

There's a faint birthmark on the outside of her right hip, a small, quarter-sized landmark, shaped like Africa. In summer months, it grows darker, deeper in colour, and the edges become more defined. Chris refers to it as the disappearing continent. Winter nights as Alice lies on her side, Chris runs his hand alongside the curve of her bum, extending his fingers as they drop into the deep valley of her waist, resting under her lowest rib, the tip of his index finger almost reaching her belly button. He memorizes the placement of Africa in relation to his pinky finger as it wraps around the crest of her pelvis. Like disappearing ink, it's faded to a faint shadow, an old tattoo whose ink is being reabsorbed by the body. Physical sense memory helps him mark it's placement: his hands know their journey. Alice's scars are a roadmap on her body. The thin line under her chin from falling off her bike at 7 years old, trying to ride with Duke alongside on his leash; matching round cigar like burns on both knees from falling out of the '81 Rabbit with the world's lousiest driver and meanest ex boyfriend; a three inch thin white line on the inside of her right forearm, like chalk, the remains of an adventure race with barbed wire, ice and gravel. The delicate bump in the center of her nose, a diving mishap where her inward one and a half landed her on the board, more than once, the last time with unexpected force. Chris knows each marking, each rite of passage as if they were his own, memorizes them with his mouth, his tongue, skin on skin, branding her configurations onto him. When this is over, as someday it inevitably will be, Chris will have embodied her topography, adding to the neverending scar tissue of his own.