As we were unpacking, unwrapping some of the plenitude of framed art for which we give ardent thanks, my finger touched a frayed wire. Instantly, I felt an amazing, stunning, shocking, intense stinging pain — I was sure I’d sliced my finger open. I sucked the place of the wound, sent Margaret dashing to find a plaster, experienced panicky rushes of adrenaline, all in a blaze of pain and nervous energy.
After a minute or so, I looked for the site of the wound. No blood appeared on the finger, limning the line of the slash. It gradually became clear that there was no cut at all. Whatever happened, despite my unshakeable certainty that the wire had cut me, nothing had broken the skin.

This evening, I can’t recall precisely which finger it was. Nothing hurts now, but the memory still almost makes me sick w/ pain.

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