Stitching

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John’s body splits open when I squeeze him too hard. I stitch ceremoniously and he watches me work. He asks if I remember how we used to live in our house and sleep in our bed and never worry all the time about his body splitting open. He says he’s worried I loved him more then than I do now. Accidentally I sew one of my fingers to John’s body. To remove it I’d have to start over. I think about being stitched to him until he heals. I’m worried that my finger will meld with his skin. I wonder how long we could last that way, how long we could keep this secret.

*

John is gone for several days visiting his sister on the west coast. Every day I think about whether or not he’ll come home with new stitches and what kind of explanation he’ll give if he does. When he comes home I tell him I’ve missed him. I undress him just to look for new stitches. He pins my body against a wall in the hallway and bites my ear. John’s body splits open again. He asks if I can do it with my eyes closed this time and ties a scarf behind my ears. He puts the needle in my right hand and says needle, thread in my left hand and says thread. Pulls both hands to his body and says hole.

*

Saturdays are best because John doesn’t have to work the next day and he has time enough to get used to his new wound. Weekdays are bad because he is always sore the next day and he is tired of calling in sick and saying it’s his ulcer acting up again. We’ve tried masturbating while lying next to each other a couple of times during the week just to reduce tension. But I can’t keep my hands off of John and he can’t keep his hands off of me and we can’t afford enough thread to keep up. I sleep in the guest room now but sometimes I wake up and John is there and I can’t help myself. John’s body splits open again.

*

Over breakfast I tell John that I’m only allowed to touch him once a month now. I have stitched the same places so many times that the skin is tough and nearly unstitchable. I’m worried about his ability to continue to recover. John says I love you so much, you know. He takes a bite out of his toast, gets up from the table and drinks orange juice from the carton, says The way you worry about me. He pulls me up from my chair and his beard scratches my neck. He licks my collarbone and I say John, stop but it’s too late. He pulls needle and thread from his back pocket and lifts his shirt. Here or the bed? he asks.