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She checks herself for bruises the next morning and, when there aren’t any, she’s sorely disappointed.

Because bruises to her are a reminder. And while just as temporary as the evening prior, they serve as proof until they recede back into the skin. Like the way their mattress has slowly begun to wear into the shapes of their sleeping bodies, the indentations retreating only into hints of their sleeping bodies by noon.

It’s not that she has an issue with memory. It’s more that she likes being decorated as if she were some sort of shrine to their dynamic, however briefly. And so she’s upset when she isn’t bruised. Because even though the marks fade much earlier than the memories, they’re somehow more tangible.

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