Page 29 of Wall

John doesn’t argue. He ignores me, rummaging through the first aid kit until he finds a gauze pad.

“Okay. Are you ready?” His deep brown eyes meet mine. He’s so wide, he fills up my entire field of vision. All I can smell is his soap, and all I can see is his broad chest. His flannel shirt seems like it’s really soft.

“Okay.” He plucks out the glass, so quickly there’s only an instant of pain, and then he immediately applies pressure with the gauze to my knee. “We need to get you out of these pants.”

“Not the first time I’ve heard that.” I know it’s not the time and place, but I’m overwhelmed, and a tad tipsy, and the cut hurts like a son of a gun.

John briefly presses his forehead to mine, and his lips curve.

“We’ll give it a minute or so to staunch the bleeding.”

“I need to clean up that mess.” I can’t believe I did that. I am not the dramaticHousewivestype at all.

John takes my hand, and replaces his with mine. “Keep up the pressure. I’ll go clean up the wine.”

“It’s my mess.”

“Not really.” He flashes me a rueful half-smile, and then he heads to the pantry for the cleaning supplies.

I guess I still keep everything in the same place as when we lived here together. Why wouldn’t I? People keep mops in the pantry and first aid kits in awkwardly-shaped cabinets. Everyone keeps a corkscrew in the junk drawer.

It’s unsettling, though. It’s been four years, and he can move through this house like he hasn’t been gone a day.

Why didn’t I redecorate? Or reorganize, at least? I never had the money to move. Our mortgage is insanely low; we must have bought at the bottom of the market. But shouldn’t I have made the place my own?

I did take down our wedding picture. It’s in a box in the garage.

It doesn’t take John that long to clean up. He brings his dirty dishes in when he comes back. I checked the gauze a few times, and the bleeding’s slowed down.

“Ready to take your pants off?”

“If you can help me down, I can do it myself. You can see yourself out.”

He snorts. “I haven’t had dessert. I was promised chocolate cake.”

Tiredness, like a lead blanket, rolls down over me. It’s not blood loss. It’s centered too much in my hollow chest. “John.” His eyes find mine like magnets. “I don’t get what’s going on here.”

“I’m fixing shit.” His jaw firms. Then, he gathers me in his arms again and heads for the bedroom, snagging the first aid kit as he goes. I don’t have time to reply. He moves so suddenly for such a huge man.

“I’m going to lay you on the bed to take your pants off. Then I’m going to help you to the bathroom, disinfect the wound, and if I ain’t mistaken, I’m gonna have to apply a butterfly closure or two. We can eat cake after.”

“I can take my own pants off.”

“I can handle it myself.” He does a terrible, squeaky impression of me from earlier as he places me carefully on the bed, tugs off my shoes, and then—as I’m halfheartedly swatting at him—he pops a button, unzips me, and gently eases my jeans down from the ankles.

“John!” I shriek, and then my eyes catch on the zipper of his jeans, and I freeze.

He’s got a boner. Ahugeone. He’s keeping his eyes above my waist, but they’re still dazed and dark-chocolate brown, like they used to get when he got excited.

I used to drive him wild. It was crazy. I’d bend over to straighten up the magazines on the coffee table, or we’d be hanging out at the pool in the summer, and he’d start staring, and his eyes would get deadly serious and swirly, and then he’d come at me like a starving beast.

That was before the babies. A long time ago.

“What are you doing?” I ask, warily. He offers me a hand.

“Helping you to the bathroom. Is there antiseptic in the medicine cabinet?”

“There’s some peroxide.”

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