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.