One Hundred Percent -- an adaptation

He touches my face, just the lightest brush, as his other hand runs up my thigh. “Roni, please,” he says, “Take it off, for me.” His eyes are perfectly honest, filled with desire, and I know he means what he says. I bite my lip. I can feel where the shirt is rubbing up against my scars, sending occasional shoots of up pain through my body. It’s my penance, my body’s punishment, and I am glad of it. I should take the shirt off and let him see, let him run away in horror, but I cannot bring myself to. So I shake my head slowly and pull him closer, hoping that maybe, maybe if I’m good enough, I can make him forget about the shirt. But even as he’s coming, he still begs me: “Roni, please. Please take it off.”
My shirt is one hundred percent cotton, the tag says, clean and soft and white. I am one hundred percent woman, my body says, breasts and hips and womb. Both are untrue, but the shirt at least comes close. Not one hundred percent, maybe, but it’s nearly pure. Nearly perfect. I’m nothing near it.
I know he’s heard about what I’ve done to my body, how I tried to cut my breasts off, how many times I was sent to the hospital. I know he thinks he doesn’t care. He loves me no matter what, he says. And the scary part is — I love him too. He has saved me. I don’t deserve him, but I want him, I need him, and that is enough to keep my shirt on, no matter how much he begs.
When the test comes back, I call one of my girlfriends to find out about the procedure. I don’t want an abortion, but I can handle it. Just another sin on my list. But he doesn’t want an abortion either, he says. He goes down on one knee.
I don’t believe him at first. It’s only because I’m pregnant. But his eyes are still perfectly honest, perfectly pure. One hundred percent? I wonder. Is it possible that he is one hundred percent in love with me?
“Okay,” I say at last, then, “But if it’s a boy, we have to call him Yotam.” We shake on it. He tries to get up, but his legs have fallen asleep, and we laugh about it together. For a moment, laughing there with him, I can close my eyes and forget my scars.
That night in bed, he pulls me close, kisses me. We undress — everything but the shirt. He moves to kiss me again, but I push him away. I am selfish: I don’t want to do it. But I force myself to undo the top button anyway, and then the next. I move slowly, purposefully, down the shirt, holding it closed at the collar. I can hear his breath coming fast as I undo the last button.
Still holding my shirt closed tight, I look up at him, look deep into his eyes. They are full of anticipation, desire, yet still perfectly honest. I let my shirt fall open.
He turns his head away quickly, but not quickly enough for me to miss the look of revulsion on his face. I close my shirt, but I know it is too late. The purity, perfection — the love — are gone. How could I ever have been so stupid?