Free Choked Up by Janey Mack

very large, very battered red first-aid tool kit, opened the cantilever shelves inside, and started putting the supplies away. Betadine swab sticks, two unused packages of stitch tape, scissors, alcohol pads, gauze, tape. I returned an unused— thank God —sterile package labeled “suture 2-0 nylon armed with cutting needle” into a half-full twelve-count box.
    Next to the sutures were unopened syringes and several thin cartons with rubber-stopped vials visible through cellophane windows. I tipped my head to read the labels. Nalbuphine, promethazine, naloxone, morphine.
    Nothing the average joe could acquire even with a prescription. I reached back for the incongruous and unnecessary box of Band-Aids and knocked it off the counter.
    Adhesive strips rained onto the floor. I dropped to my knees and tried to pick the slick paper wrappers off the smooth limestone. My fingers were trembling. “Dammit.” I swept them into a pile, crumpled them into my fists, and stood up.
    I caught sight of myself in the mirror. My reflection stared back at me, white-faced and shaking, mouth moving silently, swearing to God.
    What he does is who he is. Being scared and worrying and weak is on me. He can take care of himself and he’s a pro and for chrissakes, it’s just one more scar.
    Of how many?
    My eyes went soft, and so did the rest of me. For the first time, I understood exactly how Da had done what he did to me. And why.
    A moment of clarity that was . . . less than pleasant.
    I put the last bits of the first-aid kit away, barely noticing that one of the Israeli Battle Dressing kits had an old bloody fingerprint on the wrapper. Oblivious even, to the 60cc Demerol vial with only 15cc left. I shut the kit and smacked the metal locks home, stinging my palms.
    I had a call to make.
    Â 
    Da answered his cell on the third ring. “Maisie? What’s wrong?”
    I choked, unable to force any sound out. I laid my head down on Hank’s desk.
    â€œAre you there, luv?”
    I sat up and let out a choppy breath. “I get it,” I said, my voice squeezed and tight. “Why you did what you did to me. I wanted you to know that today, I understand.”
    But I don’t forgive.
    There was more. So much that needed to be said. But the words compounded like quick-dry cement. Each one harder to release than the one before.
    And he knew it.
    â€œI miss you.” He was silent for a moment. “More than there are stars in the sky.”
    My childhood good-night. “Sands in the desert,” I filled in my line.
    â€œTears in the ocean.” He sighed. “I love you.”
    â€œMe, too.” I disconnected and drifted back into the bedroom, feeling like a soap bubble in a cactus patch.
    Hank was waiting with two Stolis on the rocks. He handed me one and raised his glass. “You know what’s great about you?”
    â€œThrill me.”
    â€œYou don’t fuss.” He clinked his glass against mine.
    I took a long swallow. The vodka sent an icy shiver to the back of my neck. I set my glass down with a click on the nightstand. I raised my chin. “God, you’re a cagey son of a gun.”
    He pulled me to him with a smirk. “Do you have a problem with that?”
    I bit my lip, worrying it between my teeth to stop from saying something pathetic like “Are you sure you should be doing this?” And then he was chewing it for me.
    It was smoky, serious sex. The kind that says I missed you and this is how much . It ended as always, with Hank on his back and me lying across his chest, while his fingers grazed across my bare back.
    I floated in the twilight between sleep and relaxation. Cool tears slipped down my cheeks.
    â€œMaisie?” he said. “Are you crying?”
    â€œYeah.” I sniffled and wiped my eyes with my fingers. “Transcendent sex has that effect on me.”
    â€œI know,” he murmured into my hair. Chin against my temple, he