Page 22 of Cillian

“I swear to you, I'll do my best to take care of you, but there aren't any clean wash clothes or towels in here. I have to go in the hallway to grab some. It's just a few steps away. You can watch me, it's not even that far. Is that alright?” I said, with a brush to her round cheek.

With a frightened look in her eye, she nodded. Something scarier than me must have spooked her if she was finding comfort and safety with me. I placed a light kiss on her forehead, before standing to head to the closet that hosted all the towels and washcloths. It took a couple guesses to determine which one it was since neither one of us had had a proper tour, but the second I found some, I grabbed more than she probably needed.

I wasn't sure what had come over me. One moment I'd found myself irritated by her. The next, utterly annoyed. At one point, I almost feared that I’d physically hurt her because that’s how mad she drove me.

But when I sensed her terror, something activated inside me. Now, all I wanted was to protect her. To save her from the humiliation of surrendering to fear. My stomach knotted at the tears falling down her eyes, and while one may have called her broken, to me she had never looked more breathtaking.

“I'm sorry for ruining your night,” she said between sniffles. “I think maybe I just overreacted since it’s been a while since I've been around such big crowds. If there's anything I can do to make it up to you, I'm happy to do it.” I lifted her chin to meet my gaze, shame and insecurity laced in her large, dark eyes.

“Elizabeth, you're a mess. There is nothing I’d ask you to do for me when you're like this. I'm happy to wash your back if you like. As I promised before, it won't be weird or anything. I just generally want to help.” With her arms covering her breasts, she turned to me.

“That would be fine. It's just I don't…I don't want you to get my hair wet. Can you find something for me to tie it up with? But no rubber bands or anything like it. Things like that aren’t gentle enough for my hair.” I thought back to her side of the bedroom where she had her personal things. She kept knickknacks and thingamajigs on the dresser, one had to be something she used in her hair.

“I'll be right back, okay?”

“Please don't leave,” she begged, as I bent down to meet her.

“I only want to grab some of your hair things. Just like with the towels, I'll be right back.” Like a broken doll, she nodded as I raced the clock to find something, anything I saw her wear in her hair.

Between clips and headbands, I settled on a black and white silk scarf. I know I'd seen her wear it, I just didn't know how she'd put it on. Her slumped posture straightened upon my return and I held the scarf out to her to make sure it was suitable.

“I swear I've seen you wear this one before, I just need a lesson in tying it.”

“Give it here, I'll just do it.” She replied weakly.

“If you do it, won't be nothing more private between us. Might as well just let me have a go at it.” She rested her chin on the tops of her knees.

“You ever handle a Colored girl's hair before?” I shrugged. I’ve never handled any woman's hair before. But that didn't mean I couldn't try.

“No, but how hard can it be to fold it in half and just get your hair off your shoulders?” I replied, which she didn’t fight me on. Just as I suggested, I folded it in half, hesitating to fist her thick, wild hair. I brought my nose to her strands, lost in its rich flowery scent before delicately taking it into my fingers to admire the way every coil spun in its own little unique, perfect pattern. I used to think my light ginger curls were thick but adjusting her God given halo, my hair would never compete with her crown.

Her hair smelled like a cool breeze amongst a bed of flowers, with just a hint of chamomile. Once off her bare shoulders, I was more exposed to her skin. Soft and delicate like satin, or perhaps even silk.

“Is that all right, Elizabeth?” She turned to me, tucking her lip before adjusting in the bathtub.

“Actually, if you don't mind, people close to me call me Queenie. You can call me that if you like.” A warm smile broke free from a frown.

“Sure thing, Queenie. If it's alright with you, I'm going to wash your back now.” Bringing the washcloth to the top of her shoulders, in light circles I caressed the length of her back. As the water dripped along her lush dark skin, I found myself curious to why before her I never found myself enamored with different kinds of women.

Her complexion was perfect, not freckled and uneven tone like mine. It was the prettiest shade of dark brown that had reminded me of springtime in Ireland. I'd only been back a few times but her earthly shade had made me feel like home. Few people had that effect on me, not even my family.

“You know, you don't have to tell me what happened back at the party. I've seen and gone through enough to know people only react that way when they're scared of something. Or someone.”

“You wouldn't understand.”

“Maybe not, but I know enough to know it likely wasn't your fault.” She huffed.

“It's always my fault. That's what he used to tell me.”

“Who used to tell you that?” She shook her head.

“I can’t, you would only agree with him.”

“You're wrong, Queenie. I don’t agree with no one that hurts girls.” For anyone that would blame her for something beyond her control, had to be crueler than I’d ever take credit for.

She took a deep breath, and for a moment I thought we would only sit there in silence. Relief washed over me when she finally opened her sweet mouth to speak.

“You don't know what it's like being a woman. Everything is your fault, even when it isn't.” I placed the washcloth on the edge of the tub’s surface.

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