What Is All This? by Stephen Dixon Page A

I’m sorry if your hand hurts you the way your face now tells me it does, but I’ve got to be going, goodnight,” and sticks the keys into my coat pocket.
    â€œI’ll tell you what happened,” I say as she crosses the street.
    â€œI told you. Save it for another time.”
    â€œI’ll still tell you because I believe in answering a question when it’s asked.”
    â€œGood. You got your big dig in. That should be enough.”
    â€œI’ll still tell you, and I wasn’t trying to get a dig in, because I’ve nothing to hide from you and I think you’ll want to know.”
    She’s across the street, stops, says “All right—I’m listening. What?”
    â€œI’m not shouting it across the street.”
    â€œYou’ve shouted everything else across, why not this?”
    â€œCome here or I’ll go there.”
    â€œI’ll come. You’re hurt. You are hurt? That bandage with blood isn’t a fake?”
    The answer is no.”
    She waits for a car to pass before she crosses the street. “Now, what? If you’re not going to act like an ass again with that ‘The answer is no.’”
    â€œFirst, how do you feel about me?”
    â€œAbout what? Which way? What does that have to do with anything? And when are you talking about?”
    This way. About everything. Your feelings to me. Before and now.”
    â€œA week before—we both knew. Now—let’s be honest—neither of us does.”
    â€œWill you come upstairs with me?”
    â€œHave you been to a doctor or hospital?”
    â€œNo.”
    Then only to look at your hand and wash and dress it if it needs it.”
    â€œI don’t feel too well anyway, so that’s okay with me.”
    We go up the stoop and into the vestibule. She gets the keys out of my pocket, unlocks the door, and we start upstairs, she in front.
    â€œWhat was the question before that you asked me in the restaurant?” she says, without turning around.
    â€œOne at the end? You don’t know?”
    That’s why I asked. I’m curious because of what maybe it all led to.”
    â€œI forget also.”
    â€œNo you didn’t.”
    â€œNo I did. It was an important one for us, though. First the argument and my storming away and eventually smashing my hand through a closet door, which is part of what I was going to tell you I did and why.”
    â€œIt was much more important to you. But maybe we better forget it because of what it could lead to now. More arguing and bitterness, and that’s the last thing I want to get involved in again.”
    â€œNow I remember,” I say.
    â€œAll right. Though I don’t believe you. But what is it? Bad hand, sour feelings, potential explosion, but you want to have it out, let’s.”
    â€œNo, I suddenly forget. Tip of the tongue, off it again. Probably because of the damn pain and a headache now. I’ll remember it, though.”
    â€œHopefully, when I’m not here, if you did forget.”
    â€œHonestly, I did.”
    We’d reached the fourth-floor landing. She unlocks my door, puts the keys on top of the refrigerator, looks around and says “My God, what a mess you made. What could have got into you?”
    â€œI don’t know.”
    She has me sit on the toilet seat cover, takes my bandage off, says “Look at this; it’s awful,” washes and dresses my hand, makes me take three aspirins. I say “I still don’t feel too well. Could you stay?”
    â€œAll right, but on different sides of the bed.”
    I go to bed and sometime later she joins me. My hand hurts like hell. I can’t fall asleep. She says “Your jumping around is keeping me up.”
    â€œMy hand.”
    She turns on the light. There’s a lot of blood on me and my side of the bed. She says “I better get you to a hospital.”
    We go to one. They take x-rays and say