Skin

On the gravel driveway one summer, Ben slipped, skinning his left knee. He went inside crying. His mother and father were sitting in armchairs drinking iced tea out of glasses because it was Saturday and they had nothing urgent to do, though they did have minor things to do and they had been doing them. “You only need a band-aid,” said his mother, sympathetic but amused. “Don’t give him a band-aid,” said his father. “Or if you give him one, make sure it’s bleeding first. It doesn’t even look like it’s bleeding. Come here, Ben,” he said, setting his glass on the arm of his armchair, as if in preparation for a closer look at the knee. At first Ben, who was five, refused to approach his father’s armchair. Then he did, slowly and reluctantly. Ben’s father laughed and lost interest. Ben’s mother laughed, and said, “Come on, now, Ben.”