stitched (stichd) v 1. joined, mended, or fastened together

Usagi sniffled as she studied the delicate pink flowers on the kitchen towel wrapped around her finger, its pattern now permanently marred by a bloom of crimson blood. Her friend Makoto had meticulously embroidered the towel and given it to her as a house-warming gift when she finally moved out of her parents place. Now, less than six months later, the bloodied towel she studied not only underscored her failure as a friend, but as an adult as well.

As a child and teenager, Usagi had been notoriously clumsy. A constellation of scars decorated her arms and legs; wounds from battles with cabinet corners and concrete staircases. Thankfully, she had grown out of it. Her once short, gangly body was now taller, more mature. As an adolescent, she felt as if her body were cobbled together with random, leftover parts. She used to trip over her own feet; now, at 25, she walked with grace and purpose, finally confident in herself and her body. It had been many years since she'd suffered a klutz attack and was not pleased about the relapse.

She fought back her tears as she looked around the emergency room waiting area. A few others were waiting to be processed as their loved ones comforted them or filled out paperwork. It dawned on her that she was the only one there alone; the realization made her feel worse than ever. She had been too overwhelmed in the immediate aftermath of her accident to contact anyone, and now she was too embarrassed. Maybe once she was patched up she would be able to work up the courage to tell her friends what had happened, but for now . . .

"Tsukino Usagi?" She looked up as the nurse called her name and nodded in acknowledgement.

"Follow me," the intake nurse said, gesturing to the disheveled blonde woman seated before her. Usagi gathered her purse from the waiting room chair with her good hand and shuffled after the older woman as she was led into the emergency care ward. The nurse pointed to one of the empty beds and pulled curtains around either side of it as Usagi sat down, creating the illusion of privacy.

"The doctor will be with you in a few minutes," the nurse informed her briskly before returning to her post at the night reception desk.

Usagi briefly reflected on the events that brought her to this humiliating point. It had already been the worst day in a bad week—and that was before she had sliced her finger trying to cut that damn onion. Now she was sitting in the hospital in her pink bunny-patterned pajama pants and an old sweatshirt, clutching a bloody towel around her throbbing finger. She could have sworn she was cutting it just like Mako-chan had showed her . . .

"D-Dumpling Head?"

Usagi's head whipped around at the sound of her most hated nickname, blanching at the sight of the man standing before her. It had been many years since she had last run in to Chiba Mamoru, the neighborhood high-school boy who once upon a time had a knack for turning up at her most embarrassing middle-school moments—like the time he witnessed her get tangled in her own hair and land face-first on the brick sidewalk. Or the time he showed up at her favorite arcade right as she managed to trip a waitress carrying a full tray of milkshakes. Or the time he just happened to be directly behind her as she wadded up and tossed her abysmal English test into the air, hitting him squarely between the eyes. Come to think of it, that was the first time he had called her "Dumpling Head," a nickname taunting her signature double-bun hairstyle. He always seemed to know exactly what to say in those moments to absolutely enrage Usagi.

Their banter back then had been the stuff of legends. She had lost count of the nights she had spent lying awake in bed, thinking of the perfect comebacks to his latest taunt . . . if only she had thought of them at the time. This was the man who now stood before her with a bemused look on his annoyingly handsome face, in what may have been the lowest point yet in her adult life. Seeing him made her instantly feel like a klutzy, crybaby 15-year-old again.

"I was wondering if I'd run in to you here one of these days," he remarked with a smirk.

It was all too much for Usagi—what little self-control she had left crumbled and she burst into tears.

Mamoru stared at the distraught young woman before him, momentarily at a loss. This was not the response he had been anticipating. He had hoped that his wisecrack would earn a snappy comeback, perking Usagi up in the process. He chided himself for being so naïve. She was obviously in the emergency room for a reason; how could he say something like that to her after all those years, and when she was in pain?

"Dumpling . . . I . . ."

"My . . . name . . . is . . . USAGI!" she yelled between sobs.

"Of course, U-Usagi-san. I'm sorry, really," he said sitting down on a rolling stool by her bed, putting a comforting hand on her shoulder. "I-I didn't mean to upset you. Please accept my apologies." With his free hand he pulled a packet of tissues from his pocket and offered them to her. She reluctantly accepted, and gradually her sobs eased into sniffles.

Despite what he had told her earlier, when he had first saw Usagi sitting there, in his hospital of all places, he was caught completely off guard. It had been years since he'd seen the bubbly blonde, but back in his high-school years she seemed to be everywhere, disrupting his life at every turn. At first, he was annoyed by her clumsy, brash ways. But he soon realized there was a lot more to the petite blonde teen than bad grades and skinned knees. People were drawn to her in a way he'd never seen before, and it didn't take long before Mamoru was enjoying their encounters more than he dared to let on. She exuded life and joy, and was all too happy to bestow her effervescence upon those around her. No one who was lucky enough to count Usagi as a friend would ever be lonely again.

"Ah, Dr. Chiba. I see you're already assisting my next patient." They looked up as a kind-looking older man in a lab coat and old-fashioned glasses addressed Mamoru.

'Wait,' Usagi thought, 'Doctor Chiba?' One glance at Mamoru's lab coat confirmed it: his name was embroidered in dark blue on the breast pocket. She inwardly cringed. Learning that her old nemesis was now a successful doctor did not make her feel any better.

The older man picked up her chart and quickly read through the information. "So, Tsukino-san, you cut your finger?"

"I'd be happy to patch her up, Dr. Saito," Mamoru cut in, before Usagi had a chance to answer.

"Isn't your shift over?" Dr. Saito asked.

"Well, yes, but I'm sure it won't take too long. Plus, she's an old friend." Mamoru smiled at her; she glared back.

"I suppose it's alright," he said, handing over her chart. "I hope you feel better soon, Tsukino-san." Dr. Saito gave Mamoru a friendly pat on the shoulder before moving on to the next patient.

Mamoru quickly looked through her chart, then set it down.

"That really wasn't necessary, Doctor Chiba," she said, sarcastically emphasizing his name and title.

"I know, but I wanted to. I promise I'll take good care of you." Usagi looked at him skeptically, but he seemed sincere.

"All right," he said, holding out his hands. "Let's see the finger."

She hesitated, clutching her injured hand—still tightly wrapped in Mako-chan's towel—to her chest.

"Oh come on, you've been wanting to give me the finger for years," he teased. She stared at him for a brief moment, then gave a small chuckle. The tension in her shoulders seemed to ease. Screwing up her courage, she offered him her injured hand.

"First I'm going to unwrap your finger, OK?" She nodded. He gently peeled back the blood-soaked cloth to reveal a deep cut on her left-hand index finger. She stared at the wound, feeling slightly nauseated. She had forgotten how gruesome it looked. Free from its wrapping, the cut began bleeding again.

"How did you say this happened?" he asked, gently examining the finger.

"Cutting an onion."

"Hmm. Can you bend your finger?"

She grimaced, forcing her stiff and aching finger to move. He continued to examine her finger, assessing the extent of the damage.

"Well, the good news is that you didn't seem to damage to any nerves or tendons. The bad news is that you are going to need stitches."

Usagi sighed. "Yeah, I figured as much."

Mamoru smiled reassuringly. "Why don't you take off your shoes and lie down while I go get prepped?"

She did as she suggested, trying to keep her mind off of the pain and the impending procedure. Mamoru returned a few minutes later, pushing a cart with various medical instruments, a small metal basin, and bottles of water and disinfectant.

"OK, first I'm going to numb your finger. I'm afraid it will sting quite a bit," he explained, picking up a large syringe. She gawked at the size of the needle.

"Just do it quick and get it over with!" she said, shutting her eyes.

He picked up her hand, holding it firmly, then began administering the shots.

'He lied,' Usagi thought, clenching her eyes shut tight. 'This doesn't sting—it's EXCRUCIATING.' A few tears rolled down her cheeks. Soon though, the pain eased and then was gone entirely.

"How's that feel?" he asked.

"Nice and numb, finally," she said, wiping the last of the tears from her eyes.

"Good," he said, putting down the syringe. "So . . . you did this while cutting an onion?"

"Yeah, my last one, too," she sighed.

"What were you making?" he asked, placing her injured hand over the basin and beginning to wash and sterilize the wound.

"A big batch of curry . . . it was supposed to be my dinner for the rest of the week. Guess that's not happening now that I bled all over the vegetables."

He gave her a sympathetic glance as he dried her hand and placed it on sterile paper. When Mamoru began threading the needle, she shut her eyes tight, placing her crook of her arm over her face for good measure.

"That's a really beautiful ring," he said, picking up her left hand once more.

"Thank you."

"It's moonstone, right?" She could feel her hand being rotated this way and that as he began to stitch her up.

"Yeah."

"I've never seen one with such an intricate carving."

"I . . . yeah. It's very special to me."

"I don't know why, but I've always had a thing for rocks and crystals."

"Really?" she asked, surprised.

"Yeah. I collected rocks a as a kid. I must have had a dozen shoeboxes full—all mounted, labeled, and classified, of course. It drove my aunt crazy." He smiled at the memory. "I actually considered going into mineralogy, but I think I always knew I really wanted to be a doctor."

She moved her right arm to her chest and opened her eyes, watching him skillfully going about his task. "I think you made the right choice, Mamoru-san," she said softly. He looked at her, surprised at her kind words. She gave him a small smile, then turned her head away. They sat in silence as he finished stitching up her finger.

"All done! Take a look and tell me what you think of my handiwork before I bandage you up." She nervously looked at her mutilated finger, staring at the giant black stitches that now ran across it.

"Oh my god." She paled and put her head back on the pillow, clenching her eyes shut.

He chuckled at her response. "Well, I think I did a great job, if I do say so myself. I promise it will heal beautifully. In a year or two you'll barely be able to see the scar."

He picked up gauze and began bandaging her finger. "You're going to have to take it easy for a few days. No alcohol, no partying, no strenuous physical activity. I'm going to write you some prescriptions for painkillers and antibiotics. Be sure to follow the instructions on the labels. You'll need to set up an appointment to come back in a week and see me so I can assess how your cut is healing and hopefully take out the stitches." She nodded and he helped her sit up. She put her uninjured hand to her head and rubbed her eyes.

"You feeling OK?"

"Yeah, I'm OK. I'm just a little out of it. It's been a very long day."

"That's understandable. You can sit here as long as you need to."

Her stomach chose that moment to protest its lack of dinner. Mamoru smiled.

"Hungry?"

"Maybe a little," she said, as her stomach continued to grumble. "I don't know what I'm going to eat though, since my dinner is ruined." She bit her lip, thinking about her empty bank account. The end of the month was always a pinch, but the medical bills for the day were going to put her balance distressingly close to 0.

"I'll tell you what, Usagi-san. How about you go check out and get your medications from the night pharmacy, and then I'll treat you to some dinner."

"Mamoru-san, I couldn't ask you to do that . . ."

"I know, but I'd be happy to. You need dinner, I need dinner . . . plus it would be a good chance to catch up for real. I'd love to know what you've been up to in the last decade."

"Really?" She regarded him skeptically. "Are you sure? I mean, I'm in my pajamas . . ."

"Absolutely," he said with a reassuring smile.

She thought about it. She definitely needed to eat, and the last thing she wanted to do was go home and cook—never mind the fact that her cupboards were pretty much bare. She could always raid her parents' kitchen tomorrow and beg Mako-chan for scraps from her restaurant for the rest of the week but tonight . . . Her stomach growled again, taking her out of her reverie. Her decision was made. She set her face into a determined look and nodded.

"All right Dr. Chiba, I accept your offer."

He couldn't help but smile at the familiar look on her face. He felt like he was 17 again, surreptitiously watching her from across the arcade as she tenaciously battled pixelated monsters. Many years had passed since then, but she was still as adorable as ever.

"Great," he said, taking out a prescription pad and jotting down the pertinent information. "Take these slips to the night pharmacist and she'll get you set up. I'll meet you over by the after-hours entrance once I'm done cleaning up. Oh, and be sure to make a follow-up appointment for a week from today when you check out."

Twenty minutes later, Usagi found herself waiting for her old nemesis in the hospital vestibule. Hair brushed, face rinsed, and finger comfortably numb, she was finally starting to feel like herself again. Mamoru soon appeared, dressed casually in slacks and a light blue button-up shirt, breaking into a smile at the sight of her.

"So," he said as they stepped outside, "how does curry sound?"

"It sounds perfect."