with the weight of his wedding ring pressing his finger into his chest, he listened to her apartment.

the air conditioner kicked on, the fridge shut down, from down the hall her bed squeaked as she rolled, above them both a toilet flushed.

he got up, stepped toward the window, opened the blinds.

that's where she found him, standing at the window, one hand on the wall, the other hand hanging limply at his side.

outside a street light lit up. it shone on him, highlighting his bare chest dirty blonde hair.

he had new scars. his chest, when they were so much younger, was almost frail. she thought of it, then, as the most fragile part of him.

he had grown. so had it. it deepened out, rounded itself. when they were younger, his chest was pale and uninterrupted, no scars.

now his chest was dark. now it had a line, thick, about an inch wide, running under his rib cage, curving toward his back.

pale.

she walked up to him. touched the scar.

"i was walking somewhere in southern mexico," he said.

"i had missed the last bus and didn't really know where i was going. i just started walking. a few hours outside of the last big city i came near this field where three men were trying to herd a bull back into his pen."

she left her hand on his scar. he reached up, traced around her fingers, but never turned his head to look at her.

"i put my bag down, walked toward them. i'd spent those summers at my grandfather's farm, you know, so i had some idea how to help."

she moved in closer to him. she put her head on his shoulder.

"i got caught between the bull and the ground."