Quirni Krebol

A path of moonlight lay across the floor, illuminating his discarded shirt. Quirney lay on his stomach, his back illuminated by a silvery light, highlighting the faint pinkish lines on his shoulder blade.

The husband's fingertips gently touched the skin nearby.

• Hurts?

• No. It's nice. It reminds me.

The man applied lavender-scented oil to his palm and began to gently massage his husband's lower back.

• Today you were especially...

• Especially what kind?

— Real. During the day we play roles. And at night, it's just us.

“Because there are no masks at night,” the man whispered, touching his lips to his shoulder.

• You look after me as if I were a treasure.

• Because that's how it is.

“I left traces,” the man said quietly.

Quirney found his hand and intertwined their fingers.

— I wear them as badges. Part of our history.

He pulled Quirney towards him, wrapping his arms around her waist.

• I love you.

• I know. But repeat.

In the ensuing darkness, they were one. The traces will disappear tomorrow. The feeling will remain forever.