There's a curiously deep cut on my finger from chopping a stubborn potato. When I hold it under the tap, the water turns red in silent empathy. I hold it tightly and shut my eyes, because it hurts but worse things happen to people and it seems wrong to wuss out over a cut.

I hold it with all my force, hoping to stop the trickling drops of blood. My finger turns a bright red and then a little blue. I leave it, startled. It drips onto the cutting board and the counter. Soon I go from being in pain to being fascinated by the blood in a confusing way.

My mother puts turmeric on it, because that's the age old technique to stem the blood. I look at it, slightly mangled and a mess of red and yellow. That makes me the most squeamish.

In the night, there's strange pulsation under the band-aid. It's like a living thing with a beating heart, waiting to break out. When I rip the band-aid, it dies down. Then it just lies still, looking like just another commonplace finger, throwing cold blood at my new found fascination.