The doctor said it probably wasn’t going to work—sewing the digit back onto my little finger. The risk of infection was very high. I asked him how come we had to wait so fucking long in the goddamn waiting room, allowing time for the tip of my finger to atrophy. He said it couldn’t be helped. There were more urgent emergencies than mine. Lives were at stake. He put lives above fingers. I couldn’t argue with him there. He told me he’d give it a shot, though, and attempt to rejoin the finger.
We drove back to the house and cleaned up all the blood in the kitchen. Al the chrome appliances, the cupboards, the tile floor. As we worked, we told each other our impressions of the accident. They were basically the same. Neither of us could understand where the blood was coming from when all we were doing was kissing.
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