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  • Monica Red

Scars




 

“How did you get that?” Jess said pointing at his hand.


Tom turned his palm over and saw the familiar mark in its middle. He looked to his side, a smile crossing his face, not only for the memory but because of Jess’s expression.


“I was leaving the site one night. Of course, it was dark and empty, but for the light of the restaurant at the other side of the street. This lady came out, and as she walked to her car, a guy jumped out and pulled a huge pocketknife.”

Jess’s eyebrow lifted, and she crossed her arms.


“I had to help her. So I ran towards her, pushed the guy down, and in the middle of the fight I blocked him.” Tom put his hand in front of his face. “The blade was right before my eyes when I stopped it.”


“And let me guess,” Jess sat up, “you knocked the knife out of his hand, punched the bad guy and rescued the lady who kissed you as a payment for your chivalry?”


“What’s wrong with chivalry?”

“Nothing, I guess.”


It was Tom’s turn to sit up and crossed his arms. “Jessica, are you telling me you have never met a gentleman?”


She laughed and hit his arm gently. “I’ll answer when you tell me the truth story.”

Tom chuckled, laying down on the grass, the sunlight warmed him just like a blanket.


“I left a cooking knife upside down on the rack by the kitchen window.” He stared at Jess, anticipating her response, “I tried to scare a fly out and I bumped the blade.”

He hadn’t forgotten her laugh, or the way it warmed his heart, better than the sun.


“You must have been furious at the fly.”


He inspected his palm again, remembering the painful reason he hit it so hard, so he missed the look on Jess’s face when she answered his question.


“I met you. You are a gentleman, Tom.”

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