Elizabeth Schmidt ~ Wrists

He traces my wrists with his hands like he doesn’t know I’m afraid of wrists. I’ve told him. They feel sen­si­tive while his hands hov­er there before I’m able to move them down to mine. Wrists are just a thin lay­er of skin and then vein.

I had acci­den­tal­ly cut my wrist on a met­al fence when I was lit­tle, not deep, but my friend told me I was lucky it wasn’t deep­er. Wrists are just a thin lay­er of skin that cov­er up ves­sels to all that blood. He just traced two access points where I can be drained. If there’s much to drain of me.

He looks into my eyes like he is search­ing for some­thing. Maybe he was search­ing my wrists for a heart­beat. It’s just a thin lit­tle lay­er or dis­guise we put on for oth­er peo­ple in pre­tend­ing to be hap­py. He spreads him­self so wide that even his smile is thin. I hold his hands at bay.

~

Elizabeth Schmidt is a fic­tion writer from Helena, Montana. A grad­u­ate of The University of Montana, she is cur­rent­ly pur­su­ing her MFA at Sarah Lawrence College. Her first print pub­li­ca­tion will appear in Issue No. 17 of Cleaver Magazine.