His stride slowed as he passed the opening made by the roll-up door on stage right. He walked with distinctive confidence. A dangerous confidence. I followed a long line made by very good shoes and strong legs past a belt that probably cost more than my car. His shoulders were broad, and nothing he wore had been untouched by a tailor. His dark hair was swept back and his goatee was trimmed with surgical precision. Giant brown eyes greeted me as I met his gaze. His smile matched in radiance even though he only cracked a sideways grin. Lightning struck.
Then the world fell silent. I had gone deaf. I was looking through a tunnel focused squarely on him. Like when you overdo the vignette on a photograph. I felt my ears flush with blood and all sound was obliterated by its peal. I returned what was probably the most awkward smirk. As the tunnel crept in, I watched his left foot move forward. I heard a crack and felt a pinch in my left hand. Then he was gone.
I sat for a moment, stunned. My senses began to return. The rattle of the air compressor reminded me that I was not actually deaf or blind. I looked down at the nail gun and what I was working on. A trickle of blood ran out of my hand. I picked up the project from the floor and saw the finishing nail sticking through the lumber, complete with a streak of red. I looked at my hand again and watched my palm fill with blood.
I ran into the shop to find James. Within minutes his concern dissolved into laughter at my histrionics. He dumped hydrogen peroxide on my hand. The option of a hospital was discussed, but I wasn’t hurt badly. I was also 20 years old. I still exaggerate the amount of blood. It wasn’t even a through and through. It miraculously missed every important thing in my hand. I went home. I didn’t even know his name.
This is a story that begins with a hand injury and begins to end with a totally different, nastier hand injury, years and years later.