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 rou...