The Misplaced Botanist
June 3—Seth.
“Seth, you’re bleeding,” I said in that heated moment. I rushed to the kitchen sink, fetched a damp dishcloth, and returned to his side in our shared living room, which was moderately decorated with Victorian antiques. I wiped a line of red rose blood away from his right temple, rushed back to the kitchen sink, rinsed the dishcloth out with warm tap water, and went for a second wipe-down on the botanist, my life partner/lover/husband for the last sixteen years.
“Maybe the testicular cancer is leaking out of my body.” He lifted his head a little and allowed me more space to nurse his wound.
“That’s not possible and you know it.”
“Maybe the disease is draining from my head, and then I’ll be better.”
Maybes were all he ever talked about lately. Maybe
