“Fine. Let’s talk by the hot dog stand.” She turned and headed in the direction of the obnoxious red and yellow neon. Nothing soured sexual feelings like hot dog water. She wasn’t jumping to forgiveness. Not without a legitimate apology. She deserved that.

He caught up to her easily and walked next to her. Gloria wondered if they could be mistaken for any of the other number of normal couples strolling the park grounds. Couples, partners. Could she ever have that? Would she ever be normal?

She took a seat on the unoccupied park bench and was instantly bathed in the smell of hot dogs.

Aldo sat next to her, taking up space like it was his job. He crossed his left leg over his right and then, glancing down at the prosthesis, immediately uncrossed it.

“Does it bother you?” Gloria asked, looking at his left leg.

“Does it bother you?” he countered. His voice was gruff, earnest.

“It bothers me that you were hurt,” she said carefully.

He ran his palms nervously over his knees and stared at the ground. “Could you still be with me…like this?”

“Like what?” Gloria wasn’t sure where he was going with this.

He sighed, paused. “Damaged,” he said finally.

“Are you talking about your leg or being an asshole?”

His gaze swiveled to her. “My leg.”

“I have a much bigger problem with you being a jerk to me than I do you having one regular leg and one prosthetic one. Does losing a leg make you less of a man? Of course not. But does being a moody, self-absorbed asshole make you less attractive? In my book it does.”

“You saw the scars,” he began again.

Gloria turned sideways on the bench to face him and took his hand. “Aldo,” she said softly. “I don’t care if you’re ‘damaged,’” she said, throwing his own word back at him. “You and me? We’re not wounded. We’re scarred.”

Closing his eyes, he brought their joined hands to his lips and kissed her knuckles.

“The thing about a scar?” Gloria continued. “It means we’re healing. It means we’re survivors. What you don’t like is that you have to do your healing in front of everyone. Everyone gets a front row seat to your pain and your healing, and that’s what you hate.”

“Would it be weird if I told you I loved you and asked you to marry me right now?”

“No jokes,” she admonished. “Talk to me.”