Your Face is neutral.
" Do you want to show me? "
I nod. I pinch my sleeve between my thumb and index finger, but instead of pulling it up, I pull it down. Until it covers my wrist. Until it covers my hand. Until my whole arm is hidden inside my sleeve.
" I used my mom's Exacto knife. "
I stare at my shirtsleeve.
" Or her embroidery scissors. Once I used the paper towel dispenser in the guest bathroom here. "
I feel the corners of my mouth turn up; I'm not happy but somehow I have to fight the urge to smile.
I check for your reaction. You're expecting something, I can tell. Your normal, calm face shows a hint of waiting. Waiting, and something else, something like hope.
I roll my sleeve between my thumb and index finger, then delibrately, with a kind of reverance, I pull my sleeve back, all the way up to the elbow, and extend my arm to you.
You're not disgusted or frightened or any of the hundred wrong things you could be; you look like yourself, serious, curious, and maybe, maybe, just a little bit proud of me.
I look at my arm. It's crisscrossed with pink lines, lines that strike me as delicate and faint, lines I remember making.
I gently pull my sleeve back down and decide it would be good to make a joke right about now.