The Heart Keeper

I've been in bed for less than five minutes when the door softly opens. If my husband touches my face or my hands, he'll feel the cold clinging to my skin and know that I was outside. But he doesn't. He lies down on the bed, breathing heavily, as though he is already asleep. He emits a strange smell, like metal and wet earth, and I assume it is the scent of the oil he used to polish the weapons. Suddenly I do want him to touch me - I want to feel his wonderfully soft hands slowly caress my hairline, moving down and around my neck, then across my chest, back to my neck, down my spine . . . I turn slowly toward him and place my hand in the space between us. It's wide and daunting. My hand reaches his lower back, and he twitches at my touch. I slip my hand inside his T-shirt and lightly circle his skin, but he doesn't acknowledge my touch or move toward me. In the end, I retract my hand and hold it close to my chest, as though touching him had hurt it.