Drip.
Drip.
Drip.
I watched the scarlet specks slap the stage that resided beneath my feet. She grabbed my hand, some unknown perfect stranger, still confined to her own hospital bed, and said, “It’s going to be okay. You did the right thing.” Returning my countenance, that had thus far been afflicted, with a smile. And oh how I wish I could believe her, but even without glancing up I was all too aware that her eyes were out of her lips’ jurisdiction.
Still I stood in place; my palm yet to be released by this compassionate maiden who I knew recognized her own ****** and pangs in my premature senescence. But again, I focused on the crimson beads that remained between my legs, muddying the unblemished sheen of that linoleum floor.
This junction of misery and recognition of loss came to a precipitous end when the nurse tromped through and encroached on our plane. Hurriedly, she jostled and jammed me into a small bathroom; the impression of the unnamed woman’s touch still native to my hands.
