Yuck!

Just a bubble of blood.  I dabbed it with a paper towel that I took with me on the way out of the restroom.

The knuckle on my middle finger had been a problem for boxing, aching and sparking lightning that grounded itself in my wrist.  But after some rest and repair, I felt it was ready again.

The last time was different. A change of plans turned into a night just for me, a trial run.  No sparks. Old wraps and new gloves, though, had worked against me.  This time, in round three, I felt the simultaneous cold and hot of bleeding. 

Over a week, a small abrasion gave way to a slowly receding scab on top of the knuckle. Still, every time I reached for my keys, phone, or spare change in pockets that I recall were once roomier, I’d reopen the cut.  

First a stream of red, later just a crimson dot. Bandages couldn’t stay in place, and lay ineffectively across the ridges. Sometimes I would notice the bleeding while typing on my keyboard or preparing to offer a handshake.  More disturbing, the bandage was somewhere, hopefully in my pocket and not anywhere else.  

It was never in my pocket, and I never found any of them.

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