I was looking into the mirror, combing my hair when I was first asked that question. “Tell me about that scar,” he asked.
I froze as he traced his hands contoured my neck. His hands felt rough and his confidence, He caressed my cheek, at my scar. He knew he shouldn’t have said anything. I could tell by how he touched me. He touched me gently, with that same hesitance of my previous lovers, but without the confidence.
I took a deep breath and forced myself to relax. My hands came down from my hair, and my hair came away with my hands. Hours of work came undone in seconds, months of him wiped from existence. What of my hands?
They didn’t shake – I didn’t let them. I held them curled them such that my nails dug into my palms, and I held them tight.
Then I forced my hands open, fingers out like claws on his hand that still traced that scar.
I looked at him through the mirror, and he looked at me.
I like to think I was calm but inside I was terrified. I steeled myself.
“Get out,” I said.
More terrified of him than me.