The Same Skin

It was nearly three in the morning, and I was tired enough just to collapse. I undressed without turning on the light, slipped between the covers, and was momentarily surprised to find Jeanine already there. I had actually forgotten about her and about leaving my drama with her behind in pursuit of non-Jeanine-related drama a couple of hours ago. I had so thoroughly expected her to be gone by now that when I pulled the sheets apart and felt her warm body roll toward me, I had to remember for a second who it might be. Her shape and her feel were unmistakable, though.

“You’re still here,” I said softly.

“Mm. And you’re back.” She wrapped her arm around me and coiled a leg around one of mine. This was not the distraught girlfriend I had abandoned. I got the feeling I wouldn’t have to butter her up, but it still wouldn’t hurt. I found her waist with my hand and felt the outline of her ribs underneath her t-shirt.

“Yeah. I’m sorry about before. You know that, right? I’m gonna make it up to you tomorrow with a huge brunch and—ooh, how about mimosas? And I can tell you what happened tonight.”

“You can make it up to me right now.” Her hand had found my face, and she was running her fingers down from my forehead to my throat. Now that my eyes had adjusted to the darkness, I could see her studying my features in a way I wasn’t used to from her.

“I can,” I agreed. Ordinarily, I hate making love when I’m sleepy, but I knew this was Jeanine’s time. I also knew that either my guilt about before or my confusion about her change of temperament would keep my energy up. “What did you do while I was gone?”

“Went through your stuff. Books, journals, that album—”

“My genealogy?”

“Must’ve been. I got to know you while you were out.” And she was getting to know me now. Her hands, now tracing determined paths in every direction along my unclothed body, were touching not in order to pleasure me but to learn me. “I couldn’t wait for you to come back.”

“So you’re not mad anymore?”

“Oh, of course I am. I stayed because I wanted to feel you.” I began to move my own fingers along her sensitive areas, to reciprocate, but she said, “No. I want to feel you.” She pulled my hands away from her body and lifted them above my head. Gently, she held my fingers with one hand while the other resumed its exploration. “I want to touch your skin and its five hundred years.”

Knowing it would compromise the moment but not knowing what else to say, I pointed out, “Well, you know, it’s not the same skin I had…”

“Oh, I know. Dead skin cells slough off, get replaced, I know. Mine’s not the same I always had either. But you know what I mean. It’s still you.” Her lips had begun to assist her hands, and I lost all reason to complain. “How does it work?” she paused to ask.