The Art of Scars

There can be beauty without art. I had always thought that the two were inextricably interwoven, like the arms of lovers at the point of climax.

He stood in my room gun ready, eyes darting around searching for the enemy who is not there. I laughed . . . I couldn’t help it, he looked so ridiculous wear that sad excuse for a sari, his face obscured by veils.

Mal struggled out of his headdress, clearly frustrated by my laughter. “I came here to rescue you, woman!”

The mirth died on my lips. This was Ishtar’s amends. This was my one chance to taste happiness.

I walked across the room and pressed him against the door he just burst through. I had to stand on my toes, balancing my hands on his shoulders to reach the mouth I dreamt of. I dragged his face to mine and pressed my lips to his.

At first he kissed me back. Our lips fed on each other, tongues danced. He bent down to balance for our heights. His arms wrapped around my waist. Joy bubbled within me and came out as laughter mixed in with my kiss. He stiffened and roughly pushed me away. “What are you doing?”

Always wrong. Even after years of training and countless clients, I will never know how to handle this man. But I would not be naysayed in this endeavor. I walked back with purpose in my eyes and began to unwrap his sari. “I’m taking what we both want.”

There was no art when we came together. Art requires thought, planning, precision. Love is my art. But the first time, there was only anger, vengeance, passion, need, and so much beauty I thought I would shatter. We attacked more than embraced each other, acting on instinct. Both of us seeking to break the other’s soul . . . searching for that admission: *I was wrong to leave you;* *I was a fool to let you go.* We both wanted capitulation, without having to sacrifice anything of ourselves. Neither compromise nor complication would do. In the end the victory was mutual, our surrender absolute. We lay in each other’s arms drenched in sweat and knew