Red. The color of blood.

Ben’s blood looked no different to mine but it was. I always knew that and accepted what came with it. I knew how he worried whenever he cut himself, always making sure I kept well away as he cleaned himself up.

The first time it happened and I had reached out to help him he had yelled at me and I felt tears sting my eyes at the harshness of his voice. He’d apologized later that night as we snuggled in bed. I remember tracing my fingers over the band-aid but he’d pulled my hand away, holding it in front of him, looking for any cuts or open sores. I couldn’t understand why, his cut was covered, but he still checked.

Then he’d pulled me into his arms, whispering how much he loved me. Trying to change the subject; getting my thoughts away from that jagged cut across his palm. Of course it had worked and we’d ended up making love for hours.

But the next morning when I woke, alone in the bed, I could still feel the roughness of that band-aid against my skin.

The thought that I could get infected, however remote, I knew weighed heavily on his mind. Every six months he made an appointment for me at the local clinic to get a HIV test. He came with me, outwardly calm but I knew underneath he was a bundle of nerves. The days waiting for the results left him on edge and I always gave him space until that phone call came with the words he needed to hear.

I could understand how he worried but for some reason I never did. If it happened I would accept it, it was the risk I was prepared to take to be with the man I loved.