At Least They're Committed

It had gotten on me, on the end of my sleeve. I gasped, I’d been so careful. “Oh, no,” I said under my breath. This wasn’t good. I looked down at it — at the even darker spot on my already black sweatshirt — not yet feeling it but knowing all too well that I would. Just looking at it made my blood want to turn cold, but I forced myself not to overreact, to not react at all until it started affecting me; until it touched me. There was no getting it off, all I could do was wait and consider the possible consequences of any actions. If I rolled my sleeve up, it might keep it from my skin, unless it then seeped through the fabric, then it would be in two places. Waiting for it to dry before making a move was not an option — it was too late. I couldn’t take the sweatshirt off, no, that would surely scrape it across my flesh, besides then I’d be even more vulnerable to this chilling outcome. I snagged a thick towel and quickly grabbed the spot, squeezing as much liquid out as possible, managing to avoid getting any on my hands. I took a deep breath then and quickly went for the sleeve-roll, wagering that at this point there was not enough to seep into the deeper layers. I waited for a moment. I felt nothing. Audible sigh. I had dodged the bullet. I moved toward the bedroom, confident that I would be OK and reminding myself to next time roll up my sleeves before washing my hands to eliminate the possibility of splashing cold water on my sleeve in a cold ranch-house before crawling into a cold bed. Phew.