The support for the railing on the stairs, a squarish piece of metal on the underside, all sharp edges and machined cuts, catches the cuticle of my thumb and tears it back as I'm running down for the subway to take me home after work.
It really hurts, so I hold it in my other hand and squeeze. A co-worker spies me on the platform and sidles up, and when she asks about why I'm holding my hand strangely, I open it to show her.
We both look calmly at my blood-filled palm, and she says, "I think you need a band-aid."
No comments:
Post a Comment