Welcome, sixers! Yet more this week from Badger: A Strange Tale of Love, Sex, and Vigilante Justice. The anti-hero has just turned up at the heroine's apartment, bleeding from a bicycle accident.
I loitered in the threshold as he soaped and rinsed his hands, dried blood washing away to reveal injuries slightly less gross than I’d feared. But they needed wrapping. Once he’d splashed his scrapes with alcohol, I devised the world’s most ghetto Ace bandaging, duct-taping folded paper towels to Badger’s palms. It looked profoundly pathetic—nearly as pathetic as the zing I felt, touching him. Helping him, as homely as my nursing efforts were. Again, a flash of that dopey romanticism, as if my tending to his wounds would endear me, imprint me on his scabby black heart, the way he was stamped on my soft, bruised one.
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