The sharp knife slipped,
and sliced something that was definitely not lemony.
I couldn’t even see which finger i’d cut before the blood started spilling merrily out.
So i held a cloth to it,
and took it off for a flash to catch the sight of two cut fingers.
Lipstick blood and canary lemon.
Metallic ketchup and spiky mustard.
I quicky sat down.
The beats of my pulse throbbed at my cut fingertips.
I held an almost clean dish towel to it.
I tried not to think of possible microscopic germs jumping into the cuts.
Thoughts in my head at the time:
(1) Luckily you didn’t cut off a piece of your finger!
Like what you did in college? Jeez.
(2) Damn, how am i going to eat my seafood with both my hands? Something i was looking forward to tonight!
Really..? You’re bleeding and all you can think about it how it’ll affect your food intake? -_-
A laughed gurgled from me sitting alone on the sofa.
Clem handed me a tiny plaster.
Brown. Flat. Boring. Drab.
“I want a cartoon plaster,” i whined.
“Next time,” he said firmly.
“Poor baby… i don’t like it when you hurt yourself.”
“Then we should get a maid. So she can do all the boring cutting and i won’t hurt myself.” 
