the burn

It happened the way those things always do, I meant well, time blinked, and all of sudden, I had burned the tenderest skin on my thumb, the part at the bottom of your finger nail, where your nail grows, with that little ridge of cuticle to protect skin from nail. The water might have been at boiling or higher and I gasped out loud (which I normally don't do anymore, having burned myself so often but because it was such a tender spot, I gasped). I set about the elaborate process of tending to my burn, a mix of running cold then warm water over the skin, maybe a half inch wide and a centimeter high. It had the pinkness of pain within minutes, and it seemed to be a deep down burn, the kind that would not stop throbbing. I then moved on to a piece of ice, which I held in place with my fingers until it melted, and another and another and another.

It is at moments like these, where I wonder what am I still doing there? I try to pretend I am good at that place. And sometimes, things just make sense there, it's true. I move like a drop of oil through water, slick, fast, and smooth. I make people do whatever I want them to, I can deal with just about anyone, and it doesn't seem like a good thing sometimes.

The other day, it was busy. It was the kind of busy that is reserved for two people, but even with two people racing behind the counter like rats in a maze, it would still appear busy. I did it all, managing not to piss off everyone in line and maintain a conversation with the cardboard cutout (an unlikely new fan of mine, a strange jelly has been formed between us, one that seems to require his visitation of me despite the fact that I would rather he disappear into a brine of my own disappointment and never be seen again).

[The cardboard cutout--or as you know him, the fire--has been rather baffling of late. He has been arranging times for us to meet up and in my presence he is merely a smiling anime character, to which I can relate, but he is unable to say more than a few sentences. He has a girlfriend now so his insistence that we have some sort of friendship seems odd, especially given that I know for a fact his girlfriend is the jealous type--he has suddenly removed photos of his ex from his facebook profile, for instance, and when we happen to have a facebook interaction, she'll quickly chime in with her undying love. I say no problem and thank goodness I did not land the beautiful, lovely cardboard cutout. I did however find him somewhat intriguing and told him as much, so maybe that is why he puts in the effort with me, because I had put in the effort with him, before he became girlfriended. My friends wonder why I still consider him someone worth wasting time on and all I can say is that he didn't do anything wrong, per se, he just didn't really do it right. He is a good guy and very sweet and there is nothing wrong with having more of those people around, I say.]

The burn on my thumb was so bad that it looked like my skin was glue. It began to collect lint on its surface, just in that small area, black cotton lint from wiping my hand on my apron and it wouldn't wash off. The next day I forgot all about it. The burn, the gasp, the glue.

Sometimes when people come in who haven't come in for a long time, they express their amazement at still seeing me there with a sort of cheerful pity. I feel the effects of their remarks, which range from, "Oh you're still here!" to "How long has it been?" to "You must really like working here...obviously."

A week or so later, the burn turned into a brown mark. My skin had died so deep down that it was finally ready to scab up and get crusty. It was the tenderest of skin. The brown mark registered in my peripheral as a surprise for a while, always accompanied with the worry, What's that on my thumb? until I would remember with annoyance, especially after the dozenth time that it was just the burn working itself out.

Last night, a customer who I have had some good interactions with was walking down the street right in front of my house. I was so surprised to see him that I blurted out his name even though he was on the phone and probably didn't recognize me in the darkness. He seem startled to see me and in his demeanor was a bit of dismay at realizing it was me and especially moreso when I pointed out that I lived right there. He just moved into a place around the corner, he mentioned in response, and with that, he continued his cell phone conversation and I tried to figure out why it bothered me so much.

Was it just the fact that everywhere I go there is some customer whose face I recognize that I am a stranger to because I don't have my apron and am not behind the counter of Siena? Was it his lack of enthusiasm at having me as a neighbor? Or the fact that I felt like saying, hey, I promise I'm not stalking you, I really do live right there, because he seemed so weirded out by seeing me.

When the welt grew new skin under the burned skin, it began to peel off around the edges at first. After a couple days it was gone, picked away by my nervous movements. The edges still had a some dead skin which I rubbed away with the pad of my forefinger. The skin is so tender there it can just be exfoliated by light pressure. Today was the first day I realized the burn is gone, there is no trace of its happening at all, except my memory of it and one day even that will be gone, rubbed away by alcohol or need for remembering something else, and maybe that is a good thing, to not remember everything.

As for them, and that place, the sting of what was, what could have been, what is, that is what keeps me from submitting myself further and that is what makes me want to run and cower. I won't as easily forget that time my new neighbor and I talked about my writing, or the time when the cardboard cutout made his giant laughing impression on me.