I know she’s going to say it’s silly, and I’m being silly, but there is a square on my finger, on the top right of my right-hand index finger, just under the nail, to the side, a little red square. It’s not from a scar, or any kind of cut, because I’ve done nothing to cut myself, and it’s not from any kind of pressure either, as I haven’t been holding anything for long periods, or anything heavy, so the red square is from nothing I’ve done. Anyway, it’s not even a filled in square, but an outline in red, as though someone has meticulously taken a red biro and, whilst I was asleep, or not paying attention, has somehow managed to paint or draw this perfect red outline of a tiny square, no more than three or four millimetres in size, on the top of my right index finger, just below the nail. Anyway, the long and the short of it is that I don’t know where it’s come from, it just appeared there a couple of days ago, it’s completely smooth, won’t wash off, and hasn’t changed colour or anything like that, just a red square on my finger. I haven’t mentioned it to her yet, and I know it’ll somehow annoy her, but I have to bring it up at some point, and am a little surprised she hasn’t noticed it and asked what the red square on my finger is, or more likely asked me why I’ve drawn a red square on my right index finger, but I’ll raise it tonight over dinner. It’s my turn to cook, so if I make an effort, then she might be more receptive to talking about the square on my finger. That’s it, I’ll go to the supermarket, buy food she likes, cook that, and then after dinner, just casually bring up the red square.

In the supermarket I’m careful to choose foods she likes, but also foods that can’t be accused of causing the red square. I mean she likes a three bean chilli, but kidney beans come in a tin, and opening the lid could cause pressure and leave a mark, then there is the red of the beans, and the thick liquid they come in, not to mention the same with a tin of chopped tomatoes, the fresh red chillies, the seasoning, a lot of which is reddish too, so making a three bean chilli is too risky, and whilst I’ve never seen a red square on my finger before when cooking a chilli, it could be decided that’s what it came from, and my claims that it was already there would be most likely dismissed, so that’s off the menu. So is beetroot, so no feta and beetroot salad as a starter, nothing with tomatoes, nothing that requires a tin opener, or too much chopping for that matter, and nothing with any kind of red seasoning, and so the more I walk around the aisles the more I seem to be crossing ideas off the list. In the end I settle for a pre-made vegetable soup that comes in a plastic tub, with some fresh sourdough bread, already sliced and packed, and then for the main a salad, as she does like salad with soup, but one in a ready to serve pack with lettuce, grated carrot, and sweetcorn, for which I can rustle up a dressing with what we’ve got in. The good thing is nothing is red, or in a tin, or needs chopping or seasoning with anything red, so none of it could cause a red square on a finger.

By the time I get back home, I’m not sure where all the time has gone, being sure I’d left the house early afternoon, but it seems the time in the supermarket stretched to a couple of hours, so I need to start getting the dinner ready as we like to eat early, no later than five really. The problem is, and I should have remembered, but we are out of olive oil and mustard, two of the things I’d hoped to mix, with a squeeze of lemon juice and salt, to make the dressing for the salad, but now need to think of something else. In the cupboard there is only soy sauce and some apple cider vinegar, and then in the basket where have we have our collection of dry seasoning there is black and white pepper, some pink Himalaya salt and a bunch of other dry spices, many of them red, which I can’t use. In the end I mix some soy sauce, vinegar, black pepper, and lemon juice from the plastic container shaped like a lemon and stir it with my finger, and then taste. I figure it’s good enough for the salad, but then realise I’ve used my finger with the red square to do this, and can’t believe I’ve forgotten it was there, but see that the skin is fine, and there is just a little sliver of brown from the dressing under the nail, but the red square on my finger is still completely clear to see. I can still tell her about it after we’ve eaten.

We eat, as we always do, or seem to always do nowadays, and I’m not sure when we started, in front of the television, watching a cooking show of some kind, watching people preparing food, tasting it, commenting on it, whilst we eat ours, that we’ve just prepared, and we might say something about our own food, but say more about the dishes on the screen, how they look nice, whilst we fork or spoon in what we’ve got, almost as though were eating two meals, the ones on our laps, and the ones on our screens, and sometimes I can’t tell what I’m tasting, and the soup and salad we have on our trays could be the dishes on the screen almost, because those are the ones we look at, just not the ones we eat.

‘Did you enjoy the dinner?’

‘Yes, nice and simple, just perfect.’

‘Sorry it wasn’t a three-bean chilli. I know that’s one of your favourites.’

‘Not at all. Soup and a salad with that lovely bread. That was perfect. That dressing was lovely as well, different but really nice.’

‘Ah, I forgot to get more olive oil and mustard in. I will tomorrow.’

‘No worries, will you go in the morning with me when I go to work? I can drop you off if you like.’

‘Ok, thank you. There is a reason I didn’t make the three-bean chilli though.’

When I tell her about the red square on my finger she puts her tray on the coffee table, and then takes mine and does the same, and puts her arms around me, and we cuddle in, her hands rub up and down my back and she tells me over and over that it’s fine, saying my name a lot, repeating the same words, but not asking me anything about the square, just saying ‘Oh, it’s fine love’, as she squeezes me, and I want to ask her what she thinks it’s from, how the square got there, but she holds me in closer, tightly, almost like she doesn’t want me to speak about it, and when I motion to say something she repeats the same words, and this goes on for a few minutes, and I’m grateful she’s not annoyed that I’ve done something stupid with my finger, and we enjoy holding each other, so I decide to not ask about it at all, and a few moments after I’ve decided this, we break off our cuddle, and she says she’ll doing the washing up. We pause the cooking programme, take the trays into the kitchen, and she tells me to go and sit back down and we’ll watch their desserts after she’s finished.

She wakes me up in the morning so I’m ready to get a lift to the supermarket on her way to work. It’s not much out of her way, but she might drop me off at the corner just down from the railway crossing so she can keep going without making a detour, and that’s completely fine I say, but she asks me if I’ll remember the way to the supermarket from there, and even though I tell that I will, she asks me to tell her the directions from that corner to the supermarket, and I describe the few minute walk to the crossing, where the tattoo shop is right next to the crossing, then after it you turn right, and the supermarket is just on left a few more minutes down, before you reach the train station, and she tells me that’s good, but then asks me how many minutes in total, and I answer five or six, and then she recounts for me the directions I’ve just given, and asks me again if I’m sure I won’t forget, and I tell her, I won’t, I’ve done it a million times, and there is no need to worry.

To change the topic I ask what she’d like for dinner, and she says a three bean chilli would be nice for the end of the week, and I tell her I hadn’t realised it was Friday already, but then I remember the red square on my finger, and I don’t want her to think, when I get round to telling her about this red square that’s appeared, that she thinks it’s from the chilli, or from the kidney beans, or even opening a tin of beans or chopped tomatoes, so I ask her if she just fancies something simple and quick like a soup and salad, with some nice bread for a change, and in a quiet voice she says that’ll be fine, and adds to not forget to buy some mustard and olive oil, for the dressing, and I say yes, I’ll make our usual salad dressing that she likes, and when she drops me off on the corner, just down from the crossing, she asks me if I’m sure I won’t forget the way to the supermarket and, and I say I’m completely fine, I remember the way, and I also won’t forget the oil and mustard because I don’t want to make the three bean chilli and that’s how I’ll remember to get soup and salad, but I don’t tell her that part.

As I approach the railway crossing the signal starts to whir and blink, and so I wait for the barrier to slide down wondering if it’ll be one train or two and how long I’ll be waiting to cross. It could be more than a five-minute wait, so I look in the tattoo shop window just next to the crossing for something to do whilst waiting for the one or two trains to pass. The display has sheets of white paper with designs of black-outlined dragons, roses, hearts, snarling tigers, topless mermaids sitting on rocks, ships, jumping fish, unfurled scrolls with a variety of names on them, all in the same curling script, and collections of football club emblems, all in lurid, hypnotising colours, bold greens, blues, and reds, yellows, purples, that are all beautiful and bright, vivid caricatures of reality, of life. The barrier stops whirring, and as I turn my eyes away from the window display, someone comes out of the shop.

‘Back again?’

‘Sorry?’

‘I said, ‘back again’. Are you wanting another square? Perhaps a triangle or a circle this time?’

‘I’m sorry, I don’t think I understand.’

‘Aha, it hasn’t worked then, has it?’

‘What hasn’t worked?’

‘Never mind, pal. Your missus said it might do something.’

‘My missus?’

‘It’s alright, mate. She was doubtful anyway. I shouldn’t have said anything. All the best to you.’

He goes back into his shop, and I hurry over the railway crossing, take the right turn down towards the train station, the supermarket being on the left down that road before you reach the station, and I’m there within two minutes, so I get a trolley from one of the rows outside, and enter the supermarket, take a breath, as I’ve got there fast, and then I comb up and down the aisles to get something suitable for dinner, something that won’t raise suspicion, something that couldn’t cause redness or any kind of indent on my skin, no tins, or anything like that, avoid red foods; beetroot, even though she likes it, especially with feta cheese, and I definitely won’t buy any chillies, so I can’t make her favourite meal just yet, not until I’ve told her, and I need to make sure that she couldn’t think it’s from something else, that it’s definitely unusual, so I opt for a plastic tub of store brand vegetable soup, that’ll go well with the ready sliced sourdough they have, so all I need is a nice salad, not one with anything red in it of course, but maybe some lettuce, grated carrot, and I’ll make the dressing at home, with the olive oil and mustard we’ve got in already, that I’ll mix with a little bit of lemon juice, and a quick pinch of salt, so dinner will be a lovely soup and salad, and she likes that, even though we don’t have it that often. And, I realise it’s got later than I expected, it’s after one, but still gives me lots of time to get home and make the dinner; a dinner which can’t cause any redness, so that I can tell her about the red square, just the outline of a square, that has appeared on the top of my right hand finger, out of nowhere, that she’ll probably say I’m being silly about, that she may get annoyed about, and say it’s from opening a tin, or chopping something, but I need to tell her, so after the nice dinner, I’ll just bring it up like it’s nothing, the red square on my finger.

Paul Kimm

(Image is of Mr. Kimm)