White fabric, white light. But it was night. You had a white shirt. When I looked down at your chest it was bleeding. You smiled that wry smile you do and said to take no mind of it, it was only a heart wound. I put my hands over it, feeling how the fabric stuck to you with the blood, and I looked at you the way I do to say, I do not give up puzzles. You were warm under my hands, breathing regularly.
Then my own desires rose. You said wait, you wished to tell me something. My bloodlust was rising faster than I, making my hands itch for the knife. I tasted your blood, trying to listen to you through the haze of desire. I could see your lips move and I could hear the words, but I knew I would have to think on them later as well.
With all this noise you told me something like this little story: Once he had sat in the back seat of the car safe; unaware that rain is road conditions; that the red light may be run; that the seatbelt is more than a rule. There has been no accident; it has been no random event. Now in the front seat sits the friend, known but not know, who drives him not to safety but home, after failure. There will be no discussion. Only a look at the door. “Here we are,” in cheery tones, matched with a hard look. A wince. A sigh. And silence, except for the sound of the car backing back down the driveway.
And white. And blood. And rain. And night.