Here is a hand that bears a bruise, round and smaller than an old half pence piece. She notices it as she goes to clean her teeth. It is precise and round, pink with a navy blue corona. It sits in the dimple of her knuckle, and could be mistaken for shadow, other than for the tenderness it carries. She makes a fist, and the skin tautens. The bruise is like a crescent. She unclenches the fist and the striations in her skin pucker, making the bruise circular again. She thinks back through the day she has just had, trying to locate the genesis of the bruise. It is like dredging with a slotted spoon, trying to collect pips from lemon juice. She stares at the bruise and chalks it down to mystery. Her other hand reaches for her toothbrush. As she spits foam into the sink, she eyes the bruise surreptitiously, as though sidelong glances will trick the memory into being. The hand that bears the bruise crosses her line of vision each time she turns the tap for water to rinse out her mouth. The unknowable bruise moves across the knuckle with each turn, chalked down to mystery.