After you put needles in her she’s very quiet. She lies on her front, eyes open, pupils small. She speaks when spoken to. Her voice is tiny and faraway, a murmur. She seems half-asleep. Drifting. You sit with her. She has told you that she likes being this way, and so you let her stay there until she stirs. You stroke her back, your fingers playing close to the fretwork patch of hypodermic needles that you put through her skin.
Eventually you rouse her. Remove the needles. Apply plasters. She comes back to where she is and curls up against you, not saying much, but holding tight, her face pressed into your ribs.
It occurs to you then that you are perhaps the only person who ever sees her like this. In this place, so far away from her normal alert, sharp, confident self. You may be the only one who’s ever seen her small, or drifting, or faraway, or whatever it is she is when she is.
It is a pleasant thing to think, somehow. You sit in bed with her. You stroke her back. Her breath, warm and slow, plays across your ribs, across your unbroken skin.
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