Me on top.
Him behind.
I think we tried everything in the kitchen, in the living room, and eventually in bed. It felt so damn good. With one hand against the side, my forehead on a tile. I close my eyes and remember. All of it. Every stroke, every kiss. And I come again. On my own. Where I stand.
As I’m washing under my arms, my fingers run across my skin. I pause. Then repeat the motion again, the tips skimming above my breast.
A bump.
A small nodule.
It’s hard. And it’s new.
My hand freezes where it is, like it doesn’t belong to me. I stop breathing. The water is still running; the fan buzzing. But I can’t move.
No, it can’t be.
My fingers press harder. I must be imagining it—I’m not.
That’s when I move. I dash to grab my towel, wrapping it around my hair, then grab another for my body. I slip on the wet floor and go down hard, knees cracking against the tiles. My palms break the fall. The pain comes after, sharp and delayed.
On all fours, I reach under my arm again. It’s still there.
My heart kicks hard against my ribs. That terror I felt all those years ago, sitting in the doctor’s office with Mikey, returns at level ten. I scramble to my feet, knees red, palms worse. But none of it hurts as much as that lump cracking my soul.
Back in my bedroom, I drop the towel and look in the full-length mirror.
I still look like me.
But now, instead of being the woman people come to, to fight for their treatment, I could be fighting for my own life.
Don’t panic, I tell myself. Most of the time, these things are nothing. The script I’ve rehearsed so many times runs through my head. The one phrase doctors say when a patient first approaches them. It’s somewhere between reassurance and denial: it could be nothing at all.
But a lump changes everything. It’s never just a lump. It’s anxiety hiding under your skin.
I should call Ben. He could take a look; he could tell me it’s nothing. It’s his job after all.
But I can’t call him.
It’s too soon.
He’s not my husband. He’s my lover, new boyfriend. Is he even that? Titles don’t seem to be discussed in adulthood. We just are.
I don’t know.
This feels too soon to tell him this. Maybe I should.
But not with what he’s been through. Not with what he sees every day.
No, I’m not telling him yet. It’s probably nothing. I’ll just get it checked out, and that’ll be it. Actually, it’s probably hormones. It’ll most likely not even be there tomorrow.
I’m going to wait and see. It makes more sense.
My eyes drop to my toes, then rise again to look at my reflection as my hand moves to the lump again.
No. It’s most definitely there.