Fiction

I met a well dressed man today.  "Do you remember me?" he asked.  Although I recognized him at once after many years, I replied, "I don't know any prematurely balding men!"  He then said his name, which I had actually forgotten. It sounded Russian, ending in "itch", or perhaps "ish", but he pronounced it with an accent I thought sounded German.  "Ah, yes", I said, "You are the one who ordered his sister to break up with me."

People think that other people's wounds are mere scratches which heal quickly leaving no scars. The only cuts which don't leave scars are those made by a skilled surgeon, a specialist who hadn't seen you before, won't see you again, and presumably has no personal feelings about you one way or another. I've had such cuts. The man I met should have known about the nature of surgical cuts since his and his sister's father was a heart surgeon.