'Scar Tissue' by Catherine O'Brien

He owns a scar. He’s crouched by her azaleas. Imperious memories hike languidly through
the sands of time as she uses the other to insert a lightly-salted pretzel between her lips, biting
down hard. 

Her next move will most likely make the outtakes reel. The television is stark in its warning
as she eases open the patio door. Dangerous. Don’t approach. 

Her mind sparkles as she leads him inside. She’s as gentle as eiderdown but says

“You should know my heart isn’t primed for pedestrianisation. Walk on it, even let your laces
lick the kerb and you’re out.”