I went in the bathroom and showered and shaved. What if I didn't get hard?Eight.She came in and we sat together on the couch, not talking much.The phone rang a few times. We both begged off on chances to go out that evening. Something right here at home was much more interesting, we didn't say, just no thanks. Finally it was nine o'clock. She had been sitting next to me on the sofa, my arm around her shoulders. The TV was on and we were gazing at it but neither of us had any idea what the story line was."I guess I'll take my shower." She said, leaning her head against my shoulder for a few seconds. I squeezed her to me tightly, relaxed my grip. "Okay mom. See you in a while." She leaned forward, stood, and left the room. I heard the bathroom door close.Thirty minutes later it swung open again and in a few moments she appeared in the doorway of the TV room. Her face was flushed, her eyes bright as she posed there, dressed only in a filmy black pegnoir that just covered the tops of her. I was genuinely startled, and almost felt light headed – I’m not sure why, it wasn’t more than a small gouge in my face. At fifty four I’ve got more than my share of accumulated dings, scars, and healed-over wounds in places both visible and hidden, and I don’t give these types of mishaps a second thought. I think what caused my momentary wooziness was the surprise of it all. I saw her look at me with concern. ‘I have one of those wipes…’ and the next thing I knew she was handing me an antiseptic wipe. We were standing in the middle of the street, and I suggested we get out of the pedestrian traffic, so we moved to the fence at the edge of the sidewalk, the fence that borders Trinity Church and the graveyard. I fumbled around – my hands were half cold and numb, my fingers not working too well – and then she started laughing, covering her mouth with her hand. ‘What?’ ‘You’re just smearing it around!’ and she outright laughed. ‘Look, if you promise me you don’t have any blood-borne.
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