The woman taking my blood scoffed at my white pants.
“You don’t like them?” I asked incredulously and with more than an edge of hurt.
“No, I do, I like them a lot! But…” and she motioned to the needle in my arm. “Blood!”
Oh, I thought to myself, I’ve gotten way more blood out of way more things than a pair of white pants. She put a bandage on, and much more tape than I thought necessary. “You can take it off after half an hour,” she said before adding, “Well, forty-five minutes, since you’re wearing those pants.”
It still touches me to be given the slightest bit of care like that, especially from a stranger. Exactly how thirsty was my childhood? I sat in the car, alone with my white pants and bandage, wondering at what had become of this summer. Whenever they draw blood, I get a little philosophical, waxing contemplative on the simple fact of life.
My cold, analytical gaze, learned early and often in my childhood home, mostly serves me well.
Mostly.
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