one hundred twenty-two. [Like flowers, evaporated.]
There are three bruises at the point where his neck meets his shoulder, one for each syllable of his name, Chris-to-pher, hissed against his skin. He regards the effect in the mirror, paused before putting on his shirt, and he has to admit finding something aesthetically pleasing about it, dark marks against pale skin and everyone else must like it too because he could write his entire history of love-affairs in a series of bruises. He is tired and so he dresses slowly and there’s something he finds strange in putting on school clothes for the first time after the holidays.