The Stain

She couldn’t decipher where she’d gotten the stain.

Dirty red. The color of rust on the side of a shipping vessel.

It crept up the wrist of her white wool sweater, crawling up the threads like veins.

Spaghetti? No. They’d ordered in last night. Chinese take-out.

Lipstick? Too uneven, the splotch too wet.

The detective called her name. She folded her fingers around the stain, twisting it underneath her wrist, tucking it in.

Are you ready? he asked.

She nodded and rose to identify her lover’s body.