The jittering in Beth’s hands had returned. It was worse in the left than in the right: some quirk of evolution no doubt. The left half of her body was always more emotional than the right. But it was uncomfortably moist in the room; dampness covered the seat on which she was tensely perching.
This crumbling nakedness within the opaque lake, a hand reaches and washes away the aches. I smile and she receives it with her own (a little sadder than mine, perhaps a little more wise). She struggles to adjust herself around the petulant convexity of her stomach. She asks: “How are you feeling?” My heart, I have learned, is something that will always ache. I tell her I am feeling so much better. She helps me to stand and wraps me up. I thank her for her kindness.