In her hands...

Triggers are enigmatic, willful sort of things, don't you think? He asked me that once.

I remember the occasion. It was summer; barbecue weather. Between mannerisms and curiosities, he'd been nibbling at burger. I didn't pay much attention to what he was saying at first; instead, I had been focused on the way his soft, peach lips nuzzled the tip of the bun, one tiny, lucky nip at a time. I once let a horse eat a slice of bread out of the palm of my hand...I wondered whether the golden fuzz that covered his chin would be quite as silky, quite as lovely. But then he dropped a great dirty splotch of tomato sauce on his shirt, right over his heart, and I was distracted.

It blossomed out like a bullet wound. The starched white made the red seem deadly; infectious. He was embarrassed, of course. What is it about stains that repels us so?

It may have been the talk about triggers, and it may have been the sauce, but after that I simply couldn't stop thinking about abrasions. I could only stare at that big old stain, growing bigger by the moment.

A woman had broken his heart; he told me so, once. I don't know why he told me. But I remembered it that day, as he sat there dabbing away at his lapel with my soggy blue handkerchief. It seemed pertinent.

It's silly, I know, but what I wanted to do was plug up that void, that terrible heart-hole. I wanted to sew it up with ten thousand little stitches; knit it together with warm, pink wool. I wanted to make the bleeding stop.

That's what you do when you love somebody.