Napkin

Paolo Trench was not afraid of the usual things: spiders, crowds, heights. In fact he flourished in situations involving any combination of these three.

Instead, Paolo was afraid of the little things, little things that could crop up at any moment: plasters in swimming pools, hairs in sandwiches, errant blood.

Blood was the thing that got him most. Not torrents of the stuff, not distorted head wounds, hemorrhages, miscarriage. No, what got Paolo most was unidentified spots of blood. Pin pricks of the stuff on sleeves, on tablecloths, on leaflets at the bank.

Because of this Paolo, at all times, carried in his pocket one folded, clean napkin . He carried it just in case he could catch one of those spots when fresh, at its source, and blot it out.

But Paolo never could find those spots before they dripped from their diminutive wounds. They appeared without warning, usually when he had just begun to enjoy his day, was smiling, or watching the sun on a woman's long har. Each time he would get there too late to see once plain surfaces with that brown-scarlet dot, and he knew, as always, that he and his napkin were too late.