Afterward, we lay in bed looking at each other's bodies. She traced a finger down a thin scar on my forearm. "What's this from?"

"Cat," I said, and we laughed. We'd both professed a feline affinity during our intense flirtation in the hotel pool. "He really didn't want to be picked up just then."

"This one?" She stroked a two-inch line on the back of my hand, along the meaty part between the finger and thumb.

"Also a cat." We laughed, but she stopped sooner. "I can't even remember which one."

"What about this?" She sounded uncertain as she touched a long scar just above my hip.

"Cat." This time she didn't laugh, and neither did I. The feeling in the bed had changed.

"This?" She touched my shoulder.

"Cat."

"This?"

"Cat."

"I... noticed your scars in the pool—"

"I noticed yours, too."

"—and I thought we'd have more in common."

"More than cats, you mean?"

"More like..." She bit her lip and turned away.

"Hey, it's okay. Here, what's this one from?" I pointed at a round, puckered scar under her breast, the sort movies told me came from bullets.

She looked at me with hope and doubt. "Cat?"