Yeah, progress toward an infection. I’ll do it at the bank. It’s probably already too late.
That’s ridiculous. Once the infection is in your bloodstream—Stop that makes no sense it’s not even red or swollen.
You know it doesn’t have to be—Please just stop I will change it at the bank—YOU KNOW I’M RIGHT.
“Did I go to the bathroom before lunch?” I asked Daisy quietly.
“Dunno,” she said. “Um, you sat down after us, so I guess?”
“But I didn’t say anything about it?” “No, you didn’t say, ‘Greetings, lunch tablemates. I have just returned from the bathroom.’”
Felt the tension between the urge to pull over and change the Band-Aid and the certainty of Daisy thinking me crazy.
Told myself I was fine, this was a malfunction in my brain, that thoughts were just thoughts,
but when I glanced at the Band-Aid again I saw the pad was stained. I could see the stain. Blood. Or pus. Something.
I pulled into an optometrist’s parking lot, took off the Band-Aid, and looked at the wound.
It was red at the edges. The Band-Aid had dried blood on it. Like it hadn’t been changed in some time.
Holmesy, I’m sure you went to the bathroom. You always go to the bathroom.
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