Wounds that were not wounds he insulated in bandages. They weren’t really cuts, but he liked to pull the bandages away before a big game, skin that had been covered for days now ready for the unsheathing, impenetrable.
A girl he knew at school caused him to ask questions like, “how long can you love someone you don’t know?”
And Jesus Christ, the mouth on her.
“A hymen is like an arm bar,” she said. It was funny and it was clinical. Funny because it was clinical—but clinical if you were a wrestler or worked in law enforcement.
Lips make a motion to repeat what a mouth has just said. Lips do a double-take like eyes. Lips can be a flinched punch even if they wouldn’t pretend to strike anyone.
Just like words can be fingers. He marveled that birds made nests without them. Only beaks. But it wasn’t only beaks. There was a lack of perspective with which to contend. And that’s a definite something. A bird’s eyes are so close to what it is building, not even three centimeters away, and yet the design is perfectly executed.
When his lips cracked he generally left them alone if they were not bleeding, and cracks are like fingers, too.
“Again,” she said, and he did, though he couldn’t believe he’d kissed her once already.