she wrote his number
on her hand
in blood
ok,
not really
in
blood
at least
not
at first
first there was
ink
ink the colour of blood
but
ink
nonetheless
she scribbled the number
on her hand
smiling, almost giggling,
neither of which she does.
Not
Ever
scribbling on her hand
and/or
giggling, i mean
as she
has
been known to smile.
from time to time.
where was i???
oh, yeah
blood
the blood happened
somewhere
after
the tears
somewhere
before
the cigarettes
about the time
He
was closing the door
or
about the time
she
realized
He
was closing the door.
yes, then
probably
she went to
move
the phone from her
Right hand to her
Left,
so she could
get a cigarette with her
Right,
but the Left wouldn’t
move.
i mean, it
would
Move,
it just wouldn’t
Open.
He was saying,
over and over and
over again,
He was saying,
We always wind up here again
We always will wind up here again
in that exhausted voice she
loves,
over and over and
Over
again.
so, yeah, ok —
blood
when she realized her
Left, her Left
hand
wouldn’t open, she
looked
down.
the pointed nails of the
last two fingers were
stuck,
just stuck,
in the palm of her hand.
i mean, Ringie and Pinkie
were
really
truly
S t u c k
like
S t a b b e d S t u c k
into the palm of her
Left
hand,
right
on top of His
number.
she stared at it
for a while, never
missing a
whisper
of His voice as it
chased
around her head.
she told the
Right
side of her brain
to signal her
Left
fingers to
move.
it did.
they did.
but
only a little.
that’s when she
knew
Everyone
needed help.
she considered just
leaving
them there – S t u c k
like that,
but she really, really,
really
Needed
a cigarette.
so
she balanced the
phone
on her shoulder,
careful not to
CutOff or Mute
Him, and, still
listening,
still carefully
listening,
she grabbed
Ringie and Pinkie
with her
Right
hand and
plucked
them
from her
Left.
two perfect half-moons
cut
His
scribbled number,
one
at 3 and 6,
one
at 9 and 7.
she moved the
phone,
again
so carefully,
from shoulder
to
Thumb and Pointer
of her Left hand.
she lit a cigarette,
thinking how
good
it was that the first
drag always,
A l w a y s
tasted like
TheFirstDrag,
TheVeryFirstDrag,
the drag when
she
was
eleven.
and thinking, she
watched
them,
the perfect half-moons
in her palm,
fill with blood.
just as they made to
spill
down her wrist, she
dipped the
unfiltered, unburning
end
of the cigarette in
to the blood, and began to
T r a c e
slowly
the digits of His
number into her
skin
ash fell,
right
about the point He
said,
I have to go. I have to go. I really have to go.
the ash
mixed
with the blood,
becoming
not black,
not purple,
not red,
but
a colour she remembered
as
Blue False Indigo
yes,
that’s what it was.
B l u e F a l s e I n d i g o
when he lay down the
phone,
she did
too
and, staring into
the rear view, she
deftly
delicately
painted
her face
with
B l u e F a l s e I n d i g o,
all the while wondering
Why
she had never
thought to
do so
Before.
© s rogers 1 june 2011
