A bruise appears on my thigh without origin.

Blue at the center, yellow at the edges, already preparing to deny itself.

I press it with two fingers.

Pain confirms nothing useful.

The body archives contact without consultation.

Doorframe. 

Table corner. 

The lowered edge of the coffee table left where it was always left.

I search the day for impact.

Find errands. 

Keys. 

The receipt folded twice in my pocket.

Nothing rises to incident.

At night I remove my socks 

and see the red line where elastic held its position.

All day I was contained by ordinary pressure.

The mark fades while I watch.

By morning the bruise has changed color.

The body amends without asking what happened.