POLLUTING

She stumbled across a raccoon footprint upon his upper back on one of those nights they tossed and turned in bed with her hand beneath his shirt and face in his chest. She wandered her fingertips back and forth on the little dent to let them consume its freshness that it finally caught his attention. 

“What are you doing?” 
“What is that? Did your mom drop you when you were baby?”
“Yeah.”

Their conversation dwelled as long as the time she spent questioning the print’s origin, and ended abruptly following his absent-minded agreement. She took her hand off the mysterious dimple and resumed stroking without remark, breathing in the calming rhythms from his nose, and her mind deviated off the subject as exhaust overcame her curiosity.

She watched him change his shirt the next morning, her eyes fixated on the roughness she felt last night, thinking why she never noticed it before. The strangely paw shaped mark is positioned a little beneath the back of his neck to the slight right. She could almost smell the humidity from its enunciated form that looks as if an animal had just scrambled across damp mud and left footage. Some red specks and bruise-like purpleness spread evenly across the spot but have settled in to give an idea of its longevity.

“Did your mom really drop you?”
“No, I got in a fight in high school.” 
“Really, and someone punched you that hard?”
“Yeah.”
“That’s impossible.”
He chuckled a bit to her bewilderment but said no more.

After that, night after night she would spend a set amount of time wondering about this scar, or birthmark, or mother’s carelessness, but never asked further for she knew he would not give a definite answer. She pondered upon that area of his skin often, caressing it gently, and thinking about who has seen it or touched it.Whoever’s noticed it must have been touching him the same way as I am now. She couldn’t help but think about the impossibility of noticing that dent unless someone happened to be brushing their fingers upon his back, on one of those nights they tossed and turned in bed, her hands beneath his shirt and face against his chest.He probably didn’t even know it was there, being the careless person he is… Who noticed it first? What really happened? 

The obsession began to overwhelm her soon enough. Even when he is covered with clothing she could vaguely see the little spot shine through the cotton, speaking to her, claiming the primary ownership of his body, stamping an inerasable message. When he was without cover, the little engraving stood solidly upon his meat like a graveyard, chiseling every inch of its oddness proudly in her face. The longer she stared at it, the larger it appeared. The even longer she stared at it, she could almost see little autographs signed by each girl who has stroked his back, on one of those nights they tossed and turned in bed, her hands beneath his shirt and face against his chest. Then, with one last squint, she looked at the mark long and hard and never returned with her selfish possession of his body.

He woke up one morning years later missing the girl’s tender touch against his back, on one of those nights they tossed and turned in bed, her hands beneath his shirt and face against his chest. He loved her understanding for his lack of words and his tendency to be inattentive unintentionally. And as he stood before the bathroom mirror looking at his morning hair, his topless body, he remembered her perplexity about the dent on his back and his ignorant response to her. He pondered at the thought of this and let out a relaxing breath followed by a mild grin. If only I could tell her that the scar was really from that time she accidentally pushed me… Oh well, whatever, I’m not real good with words or blame anyway.