cleanse
She was shocked when she saw him. He looked bedraggled, like a puppy just born. His sweat hung like a cowl around his head, his hair was plastered to his head like a skull cap. Not the pretty ones the Muslim uncles used to wear when we were small, the delicately crocheted white doily shaped ones, which balanced perfectly on their heads. This hair was a mixture of grime, soot and smelt of anxiety. He didn't say a word. He sat down by her side on the bed and lowered his head into her arms. She cradled him on her chest till what seemed like an eternity, then after she was depleted of all the kisses she could put on his wrinkles, she slowly undressed him. He sat like a child on the floor of the shower stall as she poured hot water on him. She gathered the soap bar expertly in her hands and began massaging it onto his wet skin. Layer by layer of grime peeled off, like an onion, his pale skin scratched by the persistence of her nails. She wasn't leaving a single square inch unscathed, scrubbing off the dessert sand and all his trauma. The soap formed a carpet of lather over his mat of chest hair, she added a drop of shampoo to it. She stuck a finger in his belly button expertly cleaning it like a laparoscopic surgeon. She rubbed his thighs, the sleeping sea horse between his legs, pulled back his foreskin and scrubbed the smegma off. He didn't lift his head. She kissed the top of his head. Smelt the shampoo and foam. It would be years before he was well again. She dried him on the bed and swaddled him in a tight duvet. The indolent fan rotated on 3, belying the bold setting of "5" inscribed on the dial in a permanent marker.
She sat by his bed and waited. Waited for him to get better. To heal.