He was peeling some carrots when the blade
accidentally slipped through the skin of his forefinger. Blood seeped out patiently
until a blob of red liquid rested on the tip of the digit. He was still
bleeding when the phone rang:
“You okay there, man?” It was his best friend.
“Yes. Or not really. I just sliced my finger off.”
“Well, it’s—“
“I know. I’m fine. She left a year ago.” He thought,
then, “Do you know why I can write?”
He answered himself, “Because I get hurt.”
“Okay, man. I’ll see you.”
The dial tone sounded very reassured.
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