After we have finished playing, in this gentle half-public scene, while I lie with my head in his lap and hope the person who came in partway through won’t think less of me for how subbish I am being, and he scratches me with a metal claw, and we both listen in to the rest of the conversation – after we are done, he unties me, and I sit up and stretch and borrow his hoodie because I have grown cold there on the ground with no jumper on. My front stings where he has been going at me, stings more and longer than I would expect. I slouch slightly, gasp and wince, sit up straighter. That was unexpected. I pull my clothes up, and see thin red scratches, where the skin is torn, just barely broken. I mock-glare at him.
“You drew blood!”
“Well, you asked for it.”
“I didn’t ask you to draw blood.”
“What did you say?”
“Stop teasing and use that thing.”
“Exactly. You asked for it.”
“I was tied up and you had the implement, it must have been your fault! All I did was say words!”

I have a habit of saying words. It gets me into all sorts of trouble.