#23

she noticed these things. they were private, but maybe they were commonplace. that, of course, was infinitely more interesting to her. those things which were almost universal; those things she wondered aloud when he was not at home, what she noticed about herself with doors closed.
in the evenings she would stand sideways and bare in front of the mirror looking at the spot on her ribcage. it stared at her darkly, a purplish brown spot, made permanent by the seam of her bra rubbing daily, constantly. she would touch it, feeling the indentation, stretching the slight pain of the skin, more aware of her many imperfections.
she wanted him to notice without her telling him. for him to kiss her mouth, and kiss the permanence of her bruise and tell her that he loved her.
she needed to know that he also saw these things. these private, these commonplace things. she needed to know that he loved them.