By nine we decided that we were too tired to continue playing.

We sat to watch TV, sitting opposite of one another at the far ends of the couch, and I didn’t know how to describe this feeling I felt… I was content, being alone and having my space, however I found myself wishing for Jack to shift closer, so I could feel his warmth. Was that normal? Was that alright? Was it okay to just want his warmth? I didn’t make an effort to move closer to him, I’d been too nervous to do so. Instead, I found myself watching him, or rather observing him through brief, nervous glances I dared every couple of moments. In my lap, my fingers worried themselves and picked at the corners of my nails.

His features were razor sharp beneath the T.V. 's electric light, with his pointed nose and chin, hollow cheeks, bright eyes. I couldn’t decide if he was handsome or not. He wasn’t like men in the movies or on the radio, that’d been certain. He was too small, too thin, too pointed, almost like a rat. But he wasn’t not handsome, either. He was just Jack, and I suppose that must’ve been enough for me. That smell of his cologne struck me again, and I wanted to lean into it, but I stayed put.

Well, then what was I supposed to do, then? I thought of what Chastity would’ve done or what I remember observing when she let me third-wheel a date or two, or what burgeoning lovers in movies do, until I came to one conclusion: hands. Hand-holding, the brief touching of fingertips, the caging of one’s palm within the other’s grip. Hands are touched, seemingly love’s very origin points. If only I could reach and touch one of  Jack’s…

I shifted a hand out of my lap and let it drift down to the cushion between us - and then it grasped nothing. When I looked in my peripheral vision, I saw Jack holding a hand in front of him, but in a way where he was obviously trying to be discreet, trying to hide something. Hide what? Why?

He continued to pick at his nails, almost like I had just been doing, but this was more… determined. It wasn’t the mindless, nervous tic like mine, but rather a shakened perseverance that would continue without pause-

Until he peeled away a whole nail. From his left middle finger, right down the roots, the nail bed.

I saw - I heard - every small bit of flesh snapping and every miniscule bit of sinew disconnecting in high-pitched meaty echoes. There was little blood, and beneath the light of the TV, both nail and flesh were a dark red, a shade of infection that bordered on necrosis. His hands visibly quivered beneath the light of the T.V. and his breath quickened. I felt his panic, but I found myself too skittish to turn and face him, to ask him what was wrong. Perhaps, if I ignored it, it would go away… it would resolve itself.

“Sorry to ask, but, uhm, where’s your restroom?” He asked. There was the faintest tremor in his tone as he held the wounded hand to his chest.

Almost hesitantly I gestured to the small, square-shaped bathroom nestled between Mom and I’s bedroom.

He quickly launched himself from the sofa and shut the door behind him. The sink ran, and I was worried. I would’ve assumed indigestion from the food, but after the nail he peeled away… perhaps it was something more.

I’d not much time to really think about that, because as he emerged from the bathroom, he seemed more flustered, concerned, than he did before, with his left eye having gone so red I half expected him to start weeping blood. He was rushing into the kitchen, gathering his jacket and keys, avoiding my gaze.

“Hey, Temp, I-I… I need to go. Something came up and I,” he swallowed harshly. “I just need to go.”

“Hey, Jack, wait,” I rose from the sofa, stepping into the kitchen. The action made him pause right before the door. “Everything okay? Anything I can do to help?” When will I see you again?

He stood there from a moment, his back turned to me. His shoulders suddenly sagged. “I don’t know… I had a really great time, Temperance, I truly did, b-but I need to go.”

And then he was gone, and I hated myself. Had I done something wrong? Where did I fuck up? And what was wrong with his hand, his eye? What if I never saw him again, all because I failed to coordinate a proper date?

From the living room window, I watched him go on his bike, his emptiness suddenly accentuated by the dull, buzzing neon light flashing “Closed” on the shop’s door reflecting off of the damp streets in a bright, unsettling red.

In the bathroom, in the sink, still running, splatters of blood stained its white rim.