CURED

He sits on the toilet, soaking wet, but not cold. It's August hot. He can hear the neighbors downstairs. The sound comes up easy on the pipes- Joni Mitchell and someone humming along. He stands up, stares down at the rose bush outside the neighbor's window, picks a pack of cigarettes off the shelf, shakes one out and lights it, tossing the wooden match out the window. It falls the two stories spinning a whispy contrail in its wake. She's in the kitchen, fixing dinner, humming also. He holds his breath, trying to catch the melody, then lets it out and moves to the mirror. The scar's healing nicely. He traces it with his finger. Doesn't even hurt anymore.
"What are you doing in there?" Her voice is bright and cheery. "Almost ready. Can you uncork the wine?" he shouts out. Yesterday she went to the doctor. He left her and went to get a coffee and read the paper. When he returned to pick her up she was waiting outside having a smoke. "How do you feel?" he asked her.
"Cured." she said.