The Misplaced Botanist
June 3—Seth.
“Seth, you’re bleeding,” I said in that heated moment. I rushed to the kitchen sink, fetched a damp dishcloth, and returned to his side in our shared living room, which was moderately decorated with Victorian antiques. I wiped a line of red rose blood away from his right temple, rushed back to the kitchen sink, rinsed the dishcloth out with warm tap water, and went for a second wipe-down on the botanist, my life partner/lover/husband for the last sixteen years.
“Maybe the testicular cancer is leaking out of my body.” He lifted his head a little and allowed me more space to nurse his wound.
“That’s not possible and you know it.”
“Maybe the disease is draining from my head, and then I’ll be better.”