He takes me by the hand. Just like he always does. And I trust him to take me anywhere. If his hand signals right, that is where I will go even if a screeching police car is careening around the corner.
He knows. I trust him to know. Because I am his.
But, this time, he takes me down. Down to what my friend’s call the woman cave. Down to the perfect bathroom. Under ground. Our basement. But, I go.
There is no beard hair on the sink. There are no pee stains around the toilet. This is my space. He takes me here. To my space. And undresses me.
Yes, he unhooks my bra. Shimmies down my knickers. Starts the water.
Yes, he tests the water first. Then, puts me in rain. Soft, sweet, with hands firm telling me about every single step.
Yes, he sits me down in the rain. He gets the soap and washes my body. He gets the soap and washes my hair. He scrubs me new.
He shows me my woman and cave. Then, turns the water off. Lifts me. Careful. Careful. Carefully, dries every drop remaining on my body. Then, takes my hand.
Walks me up two flights of stairs. Puts me in clean beddings. Rubs Shea Butter into every aching pore. Kisses me gently.
“Yes, dear, In the mourning, I will give myself to you.”