Stinky “Or when you dive into a pool, and hate how your stomach looks in your swimsuit. And even now, with your itchy knee.” I point to her, how her finger grazes over it, half-heartedly, back and forth. 

She smiles; I only know because her teeth are really white, and I catch how they glint against the dark. 

“You need to stop scratching it, it’s just going to get worse.”

She lets off for a second, then presses her fingernail into the brunt of the bite, does it again. Until she’s formed a small cross over where the skin raises.

“There,” she says. “It’s better now.”

“You’re good?” I ask. My voice is quieter, I am not good at hiding how I feel.

She thinks for a moment, tilts her chin up to the sky. She sees things in a way I can’t. I do not know the names of any of the constellations; I am not wearing my glasses and all the stars are slightly blurry. The moon is animated, waving, watery in astigmatism. I want to know what she sees. I trust it is more that what I do.

“I will be.” She answers, and folds her knee to her–the injured one. But she holds it beneath the bite. It looks a bit awkward. I feel bad that I said anything about it.

I nod. 

“Good.” 

I look down at my knees. I cannot see if they are red, but they feel itchy.