Her hair shines like the light off her baby-oiled leg.
El believes I'm staring through her white v-neck at her breasts. She is right in a way and only moves her eyes as I peruse her uniform. Her eyes are calm. Maybe she has lost a bet I don't remember making. She smiles or is about to smile as she pulls the shirt over her head and whips it to the floor. I lock onto the scar.
I trace the raised line above her sternum around the left clavicle and over the shoulder ten times in five seconds. My eyes shutter, remembering. I cannot stop my molars from grinding and my nostril rear like horses'. I hold my seething tongue behind my front teeth. The scar is standout pink and I can't put my finger on it. The skin is Gauguin brown and I'm an imperialist. I have greed for moments too absurd to last.
My cocked head follows the scar over her shoulder, centimeters from her gently sweating skin, a 45 degree angle down to her spine. The scar stops. Or it goes under the skin and follow its line down to her hip. I lift her right arm easily and escalate back up to her heart. The puckered movement around wraps her in a sash.
El sees the hair standing on my arms and our moment accelerates towards the end. I meet her eyes and trade her contempt for the forever imprint of damage. I ask the scar how and why because I know it won't answer.