“So I’ll cut it for you then.”  I look over at you and you give me a small smile.  Still not the one I was hoping for, but definitely better than the worried look.  “When you get back.”  Your eyes turn back to the road.  “If you still want me to.”

“I might,” I say, rumpling my hair and loving the lightness of it on my scalp, the way my neck feels so cool and bare.  “I might even ask you to cut it shorter.”  I look over at you and giggle.  “Would you shave my head for me?”  Both of your eyebrows shoot up and you look at me, almost startled. 

“I – yeah… yeah, I – I could do that.  If that’s what you wanted,” you murmur.  You look at me for a few moments, head inclining slowly to one side.  “It would look good on you.”

“Really?  You really think so?” I ask, fingers stroking the shortest hair at the back of my head.

You smile and your eyes shine.  “Yeah.  I think you’d look stunning.”

“Stunning,” I say, sounding impressed.  “Wow.”

I’m teasing you and you know I am.  You laugh as you look back at the road.  “Yeah.  Stunning.”

“So you’ll do it for me when I get back,” I say, “and I’ll be ***** stunning.”

You don’t say anything… and the smile on your face gradually fades and is replaced by that same look – that impossible melange of concern and guilt and sadness and frustration. Already, I’m wanting the smile back. 

You park the car in a space and you want to carry everything for me.  Even my purse. You look ridiculous just holding it.  I take it and my backpack away from you.

“I can manage this much,” I say, rolling my eyes.

“I just don’t want you to hurt yourself.” You’re frowning as you pull my suitcase from the back seat and set it on the ground, not looking at me.  “You could pull open some of your stitches.”  You say it under your breath and it sounds almost like you’re apologizing to me.  I can’t take it anymore.

“Shane, put the suitcase down,” I say to you, slinging my backpack off of my shoulder and dropping it on the ground at my feet.  You look up at me, confused.  You’ve shut the trunk and have the suitcase by the handle, your right knee levered against the back of it so that you can shift its stubborn weight.  “Please?  Please, put it down, okay.  I want to talk to you for a minute.”  You glance over in the direction of the baggage check and down at my bag, hesitating.  “It’ll be okay.  We’ve got plenty of time,” I say as I move over to you.  I wrap my fingers around your wrist and give a gentle tug.  “I promise I won’t be late.  Put it down.  Come on.”