Page 40 of Tiger's Voyage

I often reached out to touch Ren’s arm or his shoulder but then pulled back, knowing it would hurt him. He insisted touching his clothing didn’t hurt; he just felt the pressing need to escape, and he said he was getting used to the feeling. But still, our relationship felt very limited.

I wasn’t exactly sure what he wasfeelingorthinking. It seemed as if he was making a great effort to spend time with me despite the side effects. We didn’t talk about our feelings again, but he seemed determined to get closer, tobecloser to me. He tried all sorts of things to find the trigger that would turn on his memory, and started leaving me flowers and poems through the day, much as he did in Oregon. It wasalmostenough.

I didn’t give the festival another thought until Ren found me writing on the veranda one early afternoon.

“I brought your dress for the festival.”

“Oh, thanks,” I said distractedly. “Would you mind leaving it on the bed? I’ll put it away later.”

“Put it away? The festival is tonight, Kells. And what on earth are you writing?”

“What? How did a week go by so quickly?” I clutched my book to my chest as Ren tried to peek over my shoulder. “If you must know, Mr. Nosy, I’m writing a poem.”

He grinned. “I didn’t know you wrote other than in your journal. May I take a look?”

“I’m still working on some of the words. It’s not as good as yours. You’ll laugh.”

Ren sat down across from me. “Kelsey, I won’t. Please? What’s it about?”

“Love.” I sighed. “You’re going to sit here and pester me until I show you, aren’t you?”

“Probably. I’m dying of curiosity.”

“Alright, fine. But it’s my first one, so be nice.”

Ren bowed his head. “Of course,strimani. I am always the perfect gentleman.”

I smirked at him but handed it over and sat biting my nails while he read through it once quietly. Then he read it out loud.

Love Is about Grooming

Love is about grooming

It starts …

Sweet smelling lotion is smoothed over rough skin

Cologne is splashed on freshly shaved cheeks

Shiny faces, starched shirts, short skirts

Colored lips, cheeks, and hair

We glisten

We are plucked, plumed, perfumed, and powdered

We buy flowers, chocolates, candles, and jewels

It’s not real

Real love is drab, rough, stubbly

It’s mothers changing diapers

It’s toenail trimming, nose wiping, morning breath

Trade in your high heels for tennis shoes and house slippers