Lena
Sending a stranger photos was insane. I did it anyway.
It's 8:47 AM on a Saturday, and I'm standing in the pharmacy aisle of CVS like I'm casing the joint. My basket contains the breakfast of champions: three Monster energy drinks, medical tape, tampons, and—after a solid minute of what I'm generously calling "deliberation"—a morning-after pill.
Just in case.
Future Lena might thank me. Current Lena is having a moment. The kind where you catch your reflection in the security mirror and think, "Oh good, we're really doing this. This is who we are now."
The pharmacist doesn't even blink. We've developed a silent understanding ever since my Xanax refill coincided with board certification season. She rings me up with the efficiency of someone who's seen worse life choices before her morning coffee.
My phone vibrates as I exit into Phoenix's idea of morning—already 92 degrees because this city is an affront to human habitation and we all just pretend that's fine.
Wrong Number:Good morning, angel.
I nearly drop my bag. Right. Him. The guy I've mentally filed under "Terrible Life Choice #47" even though my phone still shows Wrong Number. What would I even save him as? "Do Not Resuscitate"? "That Thing My Therapist Doesn't Know About Yet"?
It's barely morning. Also, you don't know me well enough to call me angel.
Wrong Number:You're right. Angels don't text strangers at 3 AM.
Well, fuck. Got me there.
I'm halfway into my car when the next message arrives. A photo that makes me forget basic motor functions. His hands. Just hands, but Christ. Tattooed knuckles—SINS and RAGE barely visible—scars mapping out a history of violence, wrapped around a knife like it's an extension of his body.
It's not the knife that gets me. It's the contradiction: those damaged hands holding the blade so gently, like violence can be tender if you know how to control it.
My brain splits into two unhelpful voices:Medical Voice:"Those are healed boxer's fractures. Defensive scarring. This man has been in multiple altercations."Horny Disaster Voice:"Those hands could absolutely ruin us, and we'd thank him."
Wrong Number:Your turn.
Delete it, Lena. Delete his number. Block him. Go to work. Save lives. Be normal.
Instead, I stare at my hands. Short nails, that scar from first-year anatomy lab when I learned scalpels don't care about enthusiasm, slight tremor from caffeine dependency that started in med school and never left.
These hands held a human heart six hours ago. Literally held someone's life.
Twenty minutes later, I'm in the hospital parking garage pulling purple nitrile gloves from my bag—size 6.5, powder-free, because even my bad decisions have standards. I take seventeen photos before I get one that doesn't look like I'm advertising a medical supply company. Natural light through the windshield, hands positioned like I'm about to intubate someone instead of what I'm actually doing, which is losing my entire mind.
[Attached photo]
Your hands destroy. Mine try to fix what yours break.
The three dots appear. Disappear. Appear again like he's typing and deleting, typing and deleting.
Wrong Number:Your hands are art. Mine are weapons.
They're just hands.
Wrong Number:No. They're not.
Something about him arguing with me through text makes my thighs clench. This is mortifying. I'm a trauma-trained nurse, not a teenager with a crush.
Wrong Number:Your hands would disappear in mine.
I shift in my seat, suddenly aware of every nerve ending, every breath, every terrible decision that led me to this moment in a parking garage, turned on by a stranger's texts about hands.
Wrong Number:Show me more.
