.4

They were having trouble photographing the bruise. They asked him to come over and take a look. It was blurry.

It was not a very good camera. They couldn’t get detail in that light, at the distance which the bruise could still be seen. When they used the flash—the arm glowed white and the bruise disappeared. Without the flash, it was a blur with a slightly darkened patch. He could see it only because he knew it was there. Just an inch from her left elbow on the same arm that was tied to the radiator at the wrist. It wasn’t important. It was several days old. He’d already searched her for fresh ones. There were none. This one had been an accident. She had bumped into something—the corner of the nightstand, for instance, when she went to pick her book up in the middle of the night. She didn’t see the corner.

He imagined her rubbing it with her right hand and puckering her lips in a silent, “Ow,” at 5 in the morning. She was probably still jet-lagged.