The wound

I stabbed B in the ear with my fingernail. I felt the skin under my fingernail. The blood started coming.

“Oww. Oww. Oww,” he said calmly, unconvincingly.

“I am so so sorry!” I exclaimed.

“Oww. Oww. Oww,” he kept saying over and over, as he was putting pressure on the wound.

“I didn’t mean to! I promise! I’m so so sorry!” I repeated.

He grabbed for the paper towels, crumpled one up and held it against his ear. As he pulled it away to examine the blood loss, I realized I had really done a number on his ear. Then he said,

“I might have to go to the hospital. I’ve already lost, what, a whole pint of blood?”

He looked at me, his eyes laughing, he was milking it for all its worth.

“Whatever,” I say, “that’s not real blood loss.” I paused for effect and then said, “I’ll show you real blood loss!” I smirked and then we both laughed. We were laughing over blood shed, how morbid of us.

Later that evening, as we were cuddling on the couch, I turned my head towards his ear to really examine my handiwork. His hair almost covered it, but I’m sure he will call attention to it at work tomorrow. I chuckled as I looked at his wound. I chuckled because it’s in the shape of my fingernail.

How morbid.