LIKE MOONS AND LIKE SUNS

“We need to call 911.”

“No.”

“We need to. Here! Wrap this around it.”

“I can’t.”

“I’ll—here. There. Now hold it. Come on. I’ll take your shoes. You can put them on in the car.”

“I can’t. We can’t. I can’t.”

“Can’t what?”

“I can’t go to the hospital.”

“You cut your finger off.”

“We can put it back on.”

“No, that’s done at a hospital.”

“I can’t afford that.”

“We’ll figure it out.”

“That’ll crush me. Financially. That’d end my life.”

“You’re going to bleed to death.”

“Where’s the tip?”

“I don’t know.”

“It’s on the cutting board.”

“We need to bring it. It’s where?”

“Over there.”

“Where?”

“I don’t know.”

“It’s somewhere.”

“I don’t need it.”

“It’s your finger! You need it!”

“It could be on the floor. I don’t know. I’m going to faint.”

“Sit. Sit!”

“I’m an idiot.”

“Were you—where were you? You were right here, right?”

“I’m a goddamn idiot.”

“Hold that tighter. Don’t let go! What is—is it—it’s not on the floor.”

“Look in the sink.”

“There’s dishes—Here! OK, let’s go.”

“I told you, no.”

“You could bleed out. They have to clean it for infection. You have to go.”

“No!”

“You have to.”

“I’d rather die. My—I did an ambulance ride once before and it was five hundred dollars. For nothing. I just lost my job.”

“We’ll figure it out.”

“Hospitals are for the rich. Not for idiots.”

“You’re not an idiot. And rich people can be idiots. I’m taking your shoes. Just walk out in your socks.”

“I’m not going.”

“Hold that tight, please. You’re losing blood talking like this.”

“I think it stopped. You want me to look if it stopped?”

“No! Absolutely not. Do not stop pressure. For anything. Do not look to see if it stopped.”

“I don’t feel good.”

“Can we please go to the hospital?”

“I need to clean this.”

“You can’t.”

“No, I need to.”

“You can’t! It’s coagulating. If you wash it, it can increase the blood loss. You’ll be washing the platelets away.”

“I forgot you were a medic. You talk like a paramedic.”

“I wasn’t a medic. I was EMT. Big difference.”

“Well, I can tell you know what you’re talking about.”

“Most EMTs don’t, but I dropped out of medical school. That’s where I learned. I learned jack shit as an EMT, but you need to keep that covered and held. Is it hurting your other hand?”

“Yes.”

“You can’t stop holding pressure though. If you need to, let me know and we’ll switch and I’ll hold it for a while to give you a break.”

“Can we put the finger back on?”

“It’s only the tip. It’s not the full finger. I thought you cut off your finger.”

“I did.”

“No, it’s the tip. Look.”

“Don’t show me that.”

“It’s OK. It’s just the top part. It’s OK. Does it hurt?”

“I don’t feel anything.”

“That’s adrenaline. Keep holding pressure. Don’t forget. Don’t think of anything else. Just keep holding pressure.”

“I hate this world.”

“It can suck at times, but we’ll get through this. It’s just a mistake. I’m sure millions of people cut themselves cooking every single day.”

“Millions?”

“Or thousands. But a lot. And you could have actually cut your finger off, but you didn’t. You’re lucky.”

“So lucky.”

“Can you go to the hospital though? Please?”

“They won’t do anything and it will—I have no insurance. It will drown me.”

“They can waive fees. If you make less than a certain amount a year.”

“I don’t. I was making good money. The problem now is I don’t have a job. They don’t care about that. They’re gonna look at how much I made this year and say I made too much and they’re not going to waive it. They could care less if I’m unemployed.”

“How much do you think it could be?”

“E.R. I dunno. A thousand. Two thousand. Three. More. They can charge you anything. They don’t care.”

“I wish we were in Canada.”

“France. France has the best healthcare. You don’t bleed to death in France.”

“You’re not going to bleed to death.”

“I’m going to look like an idiot.”

“So you won’t go to the hospital?”

“I think it stopped.”

“Fine. But a doctor’s the person who needs to look at that to make sure it’s going to be OK. And don’t you want them to try to put the tip back on?”

“You do it.”

“I’m not a doctor.”

“Just put it back on. Wash it off and put it on and we’ll see if it just sews itself back together like that.”

“You’d need stitches.”

“I have hard-core glue in the—over there. In the art supplies. It’s crazy good glue. Glue it back on.”

“Wouldn’t that infect it?”

“We need to do it now. Before it doesn’t work anymore.”

“You can’t just put a tip of a finger back on a finger and have it be normal.”

“Don’t say that! I want a normal finger. Don’t say that.”

“I mean, I don’t know what I’m doing.”

“Just listen to me. Wash it off and put it back on my finger and I’ll hold it like that and if it’s stopped bleeding, we glue it. I think that could work.”

“What if I put it on wrong?”

“Don’t put it on wrong. Just—don’t put it on backwards. Wash it off and let me see it.”

“OK. This is gross.”

“I thought you were an EMT.”

“It’s still gross. It looks better clean though. It feels weird. I can’t believe I’m holding your freaking finger.”

“Which way is the top? It’s like a jigsaw puzzle. Put it down.”

“Don’t stop pressure though.”

“I have to to put it on.”

“No, keep it on.”

“Put my finger back on!”

“OK, but we need to do it quick. It has to be real quick. How are you going to hold it?”

“Like this.”

“Then don’t move it. Keep it like this.”

“What are you doing?”

“I’m making sure it’s facing the right way. I don’t want to put your finger on backward.”

“I think that’s like that. Like turn it like that. I think that’s the top.”

“I can’t tell.”

“That’s the top. Put it on like that. It’s kinda diagonal, so just flop it on and then I’ll put this over it and hold tight. Be gentle. Don’t press on it. Do it.”

“OK.”

“Now!”

“There. Shit. There. Did that work?”

“I don’t know. I’m holding it like that. However it was, that’s how I’m holding it.”

“Did it gush blood?”

“Not bad, really. I think it’s stopping. Mostly.”

“The couch.”

“Fuck.”

“I’ll get towels.”

“Fuck. I ruined the couch.”

“It’s on your neck too.”

“It is?”

“Did you cut your neck?”

“No.”

“You musta scratched or something. I’m just gonna put towels everywhere.”

“I’m gonna take a shower.”

“What?”

“I have blood all over me. I want new clothes—”

“You can’t shower with that.”

“I won’t shower my finger. Just my body.”

“Be careful.”

“I want fresh clothes. I got blood on this.”

“Can you walk?”

“Yeah.”

“So you’re not going to the hospital?”

“I’m not dying.”

“You want your finger on crooked for life?”

“Don’t say that. Where’s the towels?”

“I put ‘em all on the floor and the couch.”

“Well, give me one. For the shower. Give me one with no blood on it.”

“Here. I’ll turn it on. Don’t get any water on that. I told you.”

“I love you.”

“I do too.”

“What? Love you?”

“You’re hot even with blood all over you.”

“Gross.”

“You are.”

“Kinda gross. But I appreciate it.”

“I wanna kiss you.”

“Go ahead.”

“You need anything?”

“Just—I’ll yell if I need something.”

“OK.”

“Do you think this is dangerous?”

“What? Not going to the hospital? Yes. For sure.”

“Like really dangerous?”

“I don’t know. Get the blood off. I’ll get you—what you wanna wear?”

“Anything. Nothing white. Maybe sweats. Maybe something I don’t care if I ruin it. Maybe put out some options.”

“I have no idea what.”

“I’ll get it from the closet.”

“Do you feel OK?”

“Yeah.”

“Not like faint or anything?”

“No.”

“Do you want to sleep after this?”

“No.”

“Want to watch a movie?”

“Let’s watch something. Stupid. Something light. Nothing with blood.”

“The Shining?”

“Um, that would be a ‘no.’”

“You know, you’re gorgeous. No matter what.”

“Can you hold my hand?”

“Of course.”

“I mean, my finger. Can you hold it? It hurts. I can’t hold it that long.”

“No, yeah, then you can use your other hand. I got you.”

“This is nice.”

“What?”

“Knowing you’ll protect me.”

“Well, I didn’t protect you too good. You’re missing a finger.”

“No, I’m not. You put it back on.”

“We’ll see if it works.”

“It will.”

“You’re being positive.”

“You know what I was just thinking. Some people cut themselves and they’re alone.”

“Yeah.”

“That would suck.”

“That would suck.”

“But I’m not.”

“No, you’re not.”

“You’re right. I am lucky.”

“We both are.”

“God is good.”

“He’s not bad.”

“As soon as I’m clean, can we cuddle on the bed?”

“Umm, let me think about it . . . Sure.”

“Will you read to me?”

“You don’t want a movie?”

“Will you read to me?”

“Yeah.”

“What?

“Poetry.”

“What?”

“Any.”

“Any?”

“Any. There’s nothing like your voice reading poetry.”

“OK.”

“Seriously. It gives me goose bumps.”

“Really?”

“I love it.”

“OK.”

“OK.”

“OK.”

“Recite a poem now for me.”

“Now?”

“Please.”

“What?”

“What do you have memorized?”

“Memorized? Not much. I’m trying to think.”

“Just recite anything.”

“‘Straight outta Compton, crazy motherfucker named Ice Cube.’”

“No, something romantic.”

“Gees. Requests. Gees. OK, romantic . . .”

“I can hold it now.”

“OK.”

“Just recite a poem. Not rap. Or not gangster rap. Just a poem.”

“Do you like Maya Angelou?”

“I don’t know her. I mean, I know her. But I don’t know her.”

“I know the end of ‘Still I Rise.’”

“Do that then. Hand me the towel, sweetie.”

“‘I rise. I rise. I rise’ . . . That’s all I know. It’s the end of the poem.”

“I love it.”

“Really?”

“Do it again.”

“The two words?”

“Do it again. Just like you did it.”

“‘I rise. I rise. I rise.’”

“I love it. Gives me chills.”

“You’re just naked.”

“I am naked. Do it again.”

“Again?”

“Do it again. While I’m naked.”

“‘I rise. I rise. I rise.’”

Ron Riekki has been awarded a 2014 Michigan Notable Book, 2015 The Best Small Fictions, 2016 Shenandoah Fiction Prize, 2016 IPPY Award, 2019 Red Rock Film Fest Award, 2019 Best of the Net finalist, 2019 Très Court International Film Festival Audience Award and Grand Prix, 2020 Dracula Film Festival Vladutz Trophy, 2020 Rhysling Anthology inclusion, and 2022 Pushcart Prize. Right now, Riekki's listening to X. Tindersticks' "Dying Slowly."