He took his skin off for me.
He said it was the most intimate thing he could do — to show me everything he was without the part that the world usually sees first. He said skin is just the first impression. He said I deserved more than a first impression.
I should tell you it was horrible. It was. But you need to understand that he was still him without it. Still standing there in my kitchen in the morning, making coffee he could no longer taste, with the same habits and the same quiet way of watching me before he thought I was awake. The muscles of his face still moved in the shapes I recognized. He still smiled at me with all the sincerity he'd always had, just more visibly.
The apartment became difficult. We had to replace a lot of fabric. The cleaning was significant. I won't describe the details — you can imagine them or you can choose not to, and I'd suggest the latter if you have the option.
He was cold all the time. I bought him things — blankets, layers — but the problem isn't the same when you're without skin. Heat doesn't stay.
He started staying inside. This was practical and also, I think, a relief for him — he'd always been more comfortable at home than in the world. But I could see him contracting around the edges in ways I didn't know how to discuss.
People came to visit. We stopped inviting them. The last one who came — a friend of mine who thought she was prepared because I'd warned her — sat with us for forty minutes and then went outside and didn't come back. She hasn't spoken to me since. I understand.
I should have told him not to do it. I want to be honest about that. I should have said: this is too much. This is more than love requires. I should have said: keep your skin. Keep the part of yourself that moves through the world without all this cost.
But he asked if I wanted to see him — really see him — and I said yes.
I still say yes.
He's asleep in the other room. It's easier for him at night, when the cold is external and matches him. He sleeps more than he used to. He's quieter.
But when I wake in the night and listen, I can hear him breathing. And it sounds like him.
I don't know what the ending of this looks like. I don't think there is one, for a while. I think we just keep going, getting quieter, getting colder, keeping the curtains closed.
He took his skin off for me. I'm still learning what to do with the gift.