The Middle

      "What is that?" Obviously, it's something small and electric blue. I follow it with my eyes. Up, down. Up, down. He stops throwing it, holds it in his long fingers instead. I sit silently, waiting for an answer. He says nothing, unrolling it into a long blue strip. I look down at my hands, at the tube taped to one, snaking its way to the slowly dripping machine. He's mad at me, I know he is. He won't say it, he won't say anything. He doesn't have to.

      Snap! The blue band was stretched out in his hands, until he let it slip from one. It slapped the hand that still held it, like a broken rubber band. I wince for him when he holds up his hand, half smiling, to show me the red welt the band left on his skin.

      "Feeling better?" says the nurse, as a way of announcing her presence.

      "Can I go home?" I ask. Hospitals are too clean, too organized, and too white. They give me headaches.

      She shakes her head. "But," she turns to him, while he has the band stretched between his hands again,"you can."

      She leaves again. I wonder if her job is to go around making people lonely.

      He hops off the wide windowsill and stretches. Before he leaves, he stops by the side of the bed. The band snaps against my leg, covered by a paper-thin sheet. I put my hand on the angry red mark, feeling my skin heat up as the blood rushes to it, while I wave goodbye with the other hand. I almost smile. He waves back and turns to leave. Then he stops in the doorway, and turns back to me. He opens his mouth, closes it again. Opens it.

      "It's called a tourniquet." He stretches it between his fists, pulling it until it almost snaps. He has something else to say.

        Another snap, and he's gone.