Bruises, in the shape of fingertips, were on her thighs and arms, the yellowish green color like a leaf in the fall. She stood in front of the mirror and turned to the side. There were more bruises on her hips. Then she dressed in comfortable clothes that covered the marks and went downstairs and across the street to the park where women took their children to play. A child of three, with blond hair who was wearing a white shirt and brown pants with matching suspenders, came over to the bench where Gaelle sat and played a game of sticks, which turned into marking the sandy path (a river, an island, a foreign country) and then he put out his hands to her to play pat-a-cake, one hit here, on hit there, the touch of his small hands on Gaelle’s having a power that was out of all proportion to the moment. He didn’t notice the scar, but when she pulled up the sleeve of her shirt to play pat-a-cake, he said, “You got a boo.” “Yes,” she said. “I guess I do.” He went back to patting her hands, first one and then another, and finally his mother came along and took him away, frowning once at Gaelle.
