The self-induced cuts—narrow, razor-sharp lines that proved infidelity, red-purple zigzags against his wrinkled and scarred wrists—would heal Cannon; that is what he often told me. Cutting was significant in his life, a means of his survival, and cutting produced by a tilted marriage was natural medicine, a means of Cannon learning to forgive himself for betraying our Valentine love/lust—something.
The bandages were a logic he used to prevent his insanity. Delicate wrist-armor that he sported almost all the time, never irregularly, keeping the visual atrocity of his s****l desire for another man concealed. And then he covered the bandages with fanciful, almost queer, accessories—a navy-blue scarf, a leather band purchased near the Vista del Rio in Barcelona, a red-white-and-blue bandana—w
