Young Woman Sitting on a Stool Next to a Tall Window

I saw a young, blonde, fit woman today who had scars on her lovely legs. They ran across the skin in a pattern that I found puzzling as I passed by her, carrying my dark bloom of indulgence. What had happened here? What accident endured rock climbing or cycling or running some bucking, white-capped river in the Guatemalan jungle? Her hair shimmered yellow white in the morning sun and she scribbled away intent on her page. No humor or joy here in the set of her jaw; her brow etched lines of intent to stab the page with her sharp gaze. I stole a glance at the other leg as I passed her and saw that this one too had the patterns, the metered slashes marking some set of cryptic rules up her leg. Then the slashes formed letters that shone through higher up on her thigh. "C-U-N-T," they spelled out in crude, block script. What poison or injury had happened here? What pain burned so severe it grew into the imperative of the cutter? Or was this the work of another? She and I had some things in common, though she, nor anyone, would ever know. I was sorry that I had no comfort to offer as I passed through the thick glass door onto the patio where friends waited, already on to the palliative of small talk and laughter.