A Wifes Phone: Bloody Ink [work]

And I saw the ink.

At first, I thought it was ink. My wife is an artist—a calligrapher who leaves trails of navy and black across wedding invitations. Her hands are always stained. Her phone screen always has smudges. a wifes phone bloody ink

It was a close-up of a bathroom tile. And pooling in the grout lines wasn't charcoal or printer ink. It was thicker. Darker. Rust-colored at the edges. And I saw the ink

Not a hysterical laugh. A tired, relieved laugh. Her hands are always stained

“The fountain pen ,” she whispered. “The vintage one you got me for our anniversary. It exploded in my studio at 3 AM. I cleaned it for two hours. I didn’t want to wake you.”

I have interpreted this as a prompt to write a narrative blog post based on those four keywords: