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I pull away the towel and turn on the tap, letting the cool water flow over my hand. Liquid circles the drain, tinged with a pinkish hue.
The water keeps running. Clear keeps turning a distorted shade of red.
“I’m taking you to the hospital,” Michael states, dashing off to grab his keys, I assume.
I don’t argue, knowing anotherit’s not that badwill be met with the same disbelieving response.
Michael is an attorney. We met when I got a job as a secretary at the law firm where he works.
And I knew long before we started dating a couple of months ago that he likes his life black and white. No shades of gray. No crimson. It’s why I was so shocked when he asked me out.
I’d like my life to look clear-cut.
And maybe it does, from the outside. Maybe that’s what Michael saw.
I focus on my hand, peering closely at the cut. It isn’t deep. The flow of blood is beginning to slow and clot, my body’s natural draw to survival kicking in.
I’m relieved.
Too often, survival has felt like a reflex I might lack.
* * *
The ten-minute drive to the hospital is filled with Michael’s nervous chatter and Christmas carols. It’s January, too late for holiday music. I don’t bother asking about the music selection, just stare out the window and pray I’m not dripping blood on the leather seat.
Usually, I find Michael’s optimism and proclivity toward chitchat endearing. Right now, I wish he’d just stay silent.
My hand is starting to throb.
My heart is racing with residual adrenaline. Or maybe it’s trying to spread the blood I haven’t lost.
I close my eyes and lean back against the headrest of Michael’s Mercedes.
It helps for a minute—until I hear Michael calling out my name again. I open my eyes to his nervous expression.
“Did you pass out?”
I smile, trying to reassure him. “No, I’m fine. I’m just tired.”
He gives me another worried look but continues driving. After circling the hospital’s parking lot twice, he finds a spot close to the main entrance.
Harsh fluorescent lights and the sharp scent of antiseptic greet us inside. The receptionist gives me a tired smile and a form to fill out. Michael and I take seats in one corner of the waiting room, next to a girl who looks to be six or seven and her worried mother.
The little girl waves at us as we sit. I wave back at her with my uninjured hand.
Michael gives the little girl an uncomfortable smile. Another reason I didn’t think he’d have any romantic interest in me: he values his career over having kids. A viewpoint I shared until I sat, staring at two lines on a plastic stick in the student center bathroom.
After a forty-minute wait, a nurse calls my name. We’re brought back into the main section of the emergency room, a bustling mess of activity, and I’m instructed to take a seat on one bed lining the far wall.
The nurse tells me someone will be by to look at my hand shortly, then swings the curtain around so there’s a temporary wall blocking off the rest of the room.
“Well”—I take a seat on the bed—“this is not exactly the romantic night I was envisioning.”
Michael lets out a low chuckle, rubbing one palm across the light dusting of stubble on his jaw. He seems to have relaxed now that medical assistance is imminent. “As long as you’re all right. That’s all that matters.”
“I’m fine. This”—I wave my uninjured hand around at the sterile surroundings—“was totally unnecessary.”
“Let the doctor be the judge of that, Lyla.”
