New anger, old scars
Soggy footprints trailed me upstairs. I considered grabbing a yellow hazard sign from the cleaners’ cupboard, except that the wet floor wasn’t the danger, but me. I needed a door to slam behind me, but this one had a top closer that eased it sedately into the frame. I needed hail pelting the window, but sun streamed through the glass. I needed to kick my bike over, but space was tight and it too heavy, earning myself an aching toe. I pushed my fingers under my sleeve to caress the old scars on my forearm.