Let's say

a bruise blossoms on your left bicep, an injury that surprises you as you don't remember having tripped on a root to fall on a stone, don't remember any rude idiot knocking you aside as he ran for a bus, don't remember a baseball out of nowhere thudding into muscle, but you find yourself fascinated, not with the possible origins of the damage, but with its beauty, though "beauty" seems the wrong word, and you gaze into the colors the bruise has produced, not just the old black and blue but reds of several shades and purples both deep and orchid, hints of green. When you touch it it hurts, yes, but you can't keep your fingers away. You prod this bruise and trace it; you vary the pressure, your fingers circling or sliding back and forth. "I would like to save it," you say to yourself. "I would like to keep a version of it on my desk."