Still antiseptic

The shoulder is what I keep checking. I lift my arm slowly in the kitchen and wait for the pull and there it is — that mean little line from the joint down to where the cloth sack brushed me at the bowser. I am being dramatic about it. I know. But it is mine to be dramatic about.

She is on the heat mat. I went in twice already this morning to check the humidity, the lid, the dark. Not her. The conditions. That is the lie I tell myself so I can hover without admitting I am hovering. She is quiet. I do not know how scorpions register quietness but I am choosing to believe she is settled. Gravid and quiet is the best I can hope for right now.

The form is still on the bedside table. I have walked past it four times. I am not going to walk past it a fifth. I am also not going to fill it in. I am going to let it sit there until it becomes part of the furniture and I stop seeing it. That is a skill I am good at.

I thought about Day Hospital once, just once, and the thought slid off like water. Same address logic. Same words I do not want to say. Antiseptic, dressing, ibuprofen, repeat. If it goes red I will deal with it. If it does not I will pretend it never went red.