Trusted Hand

As I stood there, arms crossed, I held my chin firm.  My jaw wasn't clenched so he could shave me, but for other reasons entirely.  My jaw was shut tight and my arms stayed crossed.  I was so furious at him; even then.  He'd said his apologies, but I hadn't accepted.  Not in words.

Sure, I would forgive him.  He knew that I already had.  He knew that too as he watched my face in the mirror, looking over my left shoulder and gliding the blade across my face.  The simple act of surrender, no matter how defiant my posture, spoke volumes.

His pleasure in my forgiveness was apparent in his easy manner.  His hand upon my left shoulder was not there for balance, or to steady himself, but was simply and gently resting there as another unspoken apology.  It lay there as soft and easy as the movement of his right hand which guided the razor.  Gentle is always how I would remember him.  Him. My trusted hand.