The form she could not sign

Moon told me to stop showing the bruise to anyone who has not been sworn in. I nodded the way I nod at difficult guests — politely, like the instruction makes sense, while filing it somewhere I do not have to look at it. What I did not tell him: I have been showing the bruise to myself for weeks. In the bathroom, phone flashlight, same patch of skin, the date written underneath in tiny letters. I am my own sworn witness. I am also the one who breaks for coffee.

Eun-bi's hand shook so badly the unsigned form slid back across the table on its own, like it was trying to get away from both of us. Lee Joon-ho's office called her at six in the morning. Six. Before a person has decided what kind of day they are having. That is not a phone call. That is a hand around a throat made of sound. She looked at me like I had dragged the sedan in through the cafe door behind me. Maybe I had.

I pretended to read the table of contents of a journal I will never buy. The shop woman did not look at me. I am grateful, lately, for the kind of stranger who does not see.

Keys between my fingers. Hood up. Rain on my neck like a stranger's apology. I photographed my own front door from the alley because tomorrow I may need to prove I still had one.

Tomorrow is the torn page. I do not know what is written on the other side. I know only that tonight is when I stop calling it a bruise and start calling it Exhibit A.