Even with Macintosh being over, it's Luna's turn for dinner which means the inevitable oriental delivery. He is inured to it by now once 'It's Luna's night' is explained, but I wish she could at least put a modicum of effort towards appearances.

At least, effort that didn't involve her bizarre medical aesthetic of bandages everywhere. Mac became accustomed to that, too, over the months, but the arm sling is new since his last call.

The three of us sit around the low den table, chopsticks and sporks sticking out of cartons of ginger- and soy-smelling cartons, as multi-color holiday lights blink through the drapes surrounding us. Macintosh and I share the couch, while Luna sits folded like origami on a pillow on the floor against the legs of the comfy chair.

I lean into Mac as I giggle. "You remember I told you how she's been wearing bandages? Not just like over scrape, or the eyepatch back in autumn, but actually [i]wearing[/i]. Some traditional far-eastern attire, she said. Anyway, these long coils of fabric keep turning up lately in the white laundry, even with her arm in the sling. If she actually needs the sling, though, I can't imagine how she—"

Luna stands up silently, deliberately, drawing our full attention. Macintosh might not recognize the blush, but I can see it. Without a word, Luna circles her free hand around half the hem of her sweater, like a tupperware lid, and lifts. Every inch from the top of her pants to the folds of her sweater, where there should be an undershirt or her rich indigo skin, are layer upon layer of ivory white fabric girdling her torso. I hear a gasp and realize it must be mine.

Luna stands for several seconds, as if flaunting it. Finally she says, "To cover up all the dead-fish eyes and tentacle-filled mouths with." It is so dead-pan I could almost believe her.

"Sit down, Luna." I flash an apologetic smile at Macintosh. "Goodness, you're always so dramatic."

Luna crumples up again as she sits. I turn to Macintosh and see him staring a Luna, brow furrowed and lips pursed.

"I'm not an invalid, sister," Luna pouts, recovering her chopsticks, "and it's no business of yours, or his."

Macintosh glances to me meaningfully, back to Luna, and to me again.

"That's... You're right, Luna," I say. "That was impolite of me. I'm sorry."

"If you don't mind my saying so," Macintosh says, "I can't help but notice the number of band-aids and gauze patches on y'all has kept going up since summer. If there's anything wrong, I'd hope you'd at least tell your sister about it. I know I'd worry about either of my sisters looking like y'all."

"I keep telling her that," I say, "but it's always 'I'm fine' this and 'it doesn't concern you' that. It's actually become somewhat frustrating with how much we're stuck with each other's company these days. If all that is to impress someone, you'd think it would be better meant for anyone else, whom we rarely see outside of grocery shopping and video meetings. Goodness knows I can't appreciate it properly. Honesty, Luna, it feels as though you're shutting me out more than usual. To make matters more bizarre, Macintosh, I've yet to see see any blood on any of the bandages in the trash."

"Cyanoacrylate," Luna mutters.

"Gesundheit," I answer playfully. I catch Mac leaning forward and I turn.

"Miss Luna," Macintosh says, then pauses as he looks to me as if for approval. "Miss Luna, I'd like to give y'all a back rub, if that's okay with you."

Luna's flushes bright as the holiday decorations. "I... That's..."

"Macintosh," I start, "don't tease—" He quiets me with a press on my leg. Not commanding, but firm. Though unfounded jealousy flares up in me, and as adorable as it is to see Luna flustered like this, it's clear he's up to something he thinks is important.

"Okay," Luna said, her voice shuddering from embarrassment.

"I'd like a 'yes' or 'no', Miss. I'd like to rub your back for a few minutes, if that's okay with you."

Luna pinches herself tight and eventually whispers out, "Yes, please."

I watch Macintosh in surprise as he stands, a statue in movement, his fingertips brushing to the very end of my knee as if to say, 'Don't misunderstand me,' and he walks to the seat behind Luna. He places a hand between her shoulder blades as gentle and inevitable as a resting boulder, and simply waits.

Over several silent breaths, I watch as Luna, still blushing profusely, melts. Her shoulders sag. Her head slumps. The carton and chopsticks tip over in her lap and Mac catches them just in time. Only then does he begin to slide his hands so very slowly up and down her spine.

His eyes return to mine. "Miss Luna," he says, "y'all can tell me to stop any time, but it's been about one minute out of a few. When I'm done, I'd like your sister to take over for a while. Would that be okay with you?"

I see Luna tense again, even under Macintosh's hand.

"Oh," I say, "we haven't..." Luna had always been big on physical contact—I [i]knew[/i] that because I had always found it annoying. Yet now I struggle to remember the last time she and I last touched, even accidentally... the last time she'd had physical contact with [i]anyone[/i]. Had it been months? Years? "Since..." On Luna's down-turned cheeks I glimpse a glint of wetness.

She whispers it like lace, "Yes, please."

Macintosh smiles at me.

"Oh." I stand up and walk over to slowly sit beside her and wrap my arms around her. "It's been a while, hasn't it? I'd love to."