NEST

“And do you see that your friend cut himself open on this window and left an ounce of blood right here?”
“I do.”
“Do you have any other idea where I should go through with this?”
“I do.”
“Where?”
“On the window.”
“Thank the Lord. Now, may I?”
“You may.”
And he pulled out of his kit a cotton swab and collected the blood, and he closed it in a little test tube. And he started moving the soft brush as if salting something with his fingers, while it started dancing between them like a half-naked Tahitian woman. He was as dexterous as a make-up artist. For a hulking mass like that to make such gracious, tender movements – it was baffling.
“Man, don’t be another one of them people who watch those, spare me! I can see from that degree – you should pick it up, it’s all trampled – you’re educated. Don’t, spare me. Some time ago we went to a woman about my mom’s age – same as here, with my colleague, on an investigation – and there she goes running after me with some tweezers, yelling ‘A hair! There’s a hair! He’s done!’ Don’t, man, spare me, those CSI people will be the end of us!”