I recall sitting in a bar somewhere near Canary Wharf in London. I frequented the bar, because the bar lady was my type, and her wild hair and the black sea through shirts she used to wear were perfection on skin. That, and her arms were bruised, and I was determined to figure out who was hurting her and if she likes it or not. Being partial to marks and bruises and such, I became obsessed with either learning more about her to befriend her, or to learn more about her just to kick the shit out of whoever was doing that to her (if she didn’t like it). The bruises never faded, and although she was cheerful at work there was something about her eyes that made me keep going back.

One night, it was quiet enough for me to change the conversation direction from the usual small talk to the heavier subjects. I asked her how she got the bruises. She looked at me unflinching for long enough that I saw no fear in her.

“Is that why you sit here every night? To figure me out?”

“It’s one of the reasons, yeah. So… how did you come to have so many bruises?”

“I fight.”

“No…  those are finger marks, and the ones on your sides are not from gloved hands…”

“I fight back..”

I smiled. So did she. “So why the hot see through black shirts if you have so many bruises?”

“I like bruises. Same as you, or you wouldn’t have taken three months to ask me where I got them.”

True. That was the last night I went to that bar.

2 thoughts on “Bruises

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