"
"Couldn't you, I don't know, cut the back out of a shirt?"
"Yeah," she said. "Or go topless. Or wear a halter. But not in public."
"No, not in public. Secrets must be kept."
"You've got a lot of secrets, huh?" she said.
"Some," he said.
"Deep, dark ones?"
"All secrets become deep. All secrets become dark. That's in the nature
of secrets."
She pressed the towel-wrapped bag of ice to her face and rolled her head
back and forth on her neck. He heard pops and crackles as her muscles
and vertebrae unlimbered.
"Hang on," he said. He ran up to his room and dug through his T-shirt
drawer until he found one that he didn't mind parting with. He brought
it back downstairs and held it up for her to see. "Steel Pole Bathtub,"
he said. "Retro chic. I can cut the back out for you, at least while
you're here."
She closed her eyes. "I'd like that," she said in a small voice.
So he got his kitchen shears and went to work on the back of the shirt,
cutting a sizable hole in the back of the fabric. He folded duct tape
around the ragged edges to keep them from fraying. She watched
bemusedly.
"Freakshow Martha Stewart," she said.
He smiled and passed her the shirt. "I'll give you some privacy," he
said, and went back into the kitchen and put away the shears and the
tape. He tried not to listen to the soft rustle of clothing in the other
room.
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