Intimate and Injury

She was standing just outside when alcove against the harbour wall where Bevin pisses.  I realised she was undoing her cargo trousers.  I discovered it was her who pissed there, not Bevin.  I was a fair distance from her but the smooth skin of her arse showed very clearly against the rugged of the harbour wall in profile.  I stood, horrified she might catch me spying on her, it had not mattered that I had not meant to spy on her that time.  Or that I had meant to spy but just to check that she was alright.  I had a little thrill of excitement, a moment of intimacy.  A moment in which I was afforded the intimacy she usually only offered Bevin with their nights in a single room cottage.  As I watched I worked out she was hidden from seats in the alcove, at least her sensual arse was hidden.  I had something not even Bevin experienced.  She did not pull her trousers back up, rather shuffled back to her perch.  She picked up something from the ground and ran it along her naked thigh.  For a moment I thought she was about to masturbate, then I realised what she was doing and I almost cried out.  She had picked up a shard of glass from a broken bottle and had cut herself on her thigh.  It was impossible to tell how badly she cut herself, or how many times either.  But I had seen the blood on the broken glass before.  It was not her first time.  I stood motionless while she pulled up her trousers, packed her bag and walked away.  I imagined the blood wet between her thigh and the cloth of the trousers.  Perhaps she walked consciously trying to keep the material off her leg, or perhaps she let the blood stain the material, bonding her clothes and her skin, a symbol of her act.  I did not move until she had left the harbour.

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