“Where’d you get this scar,” he asked, rubbing his fingers over the little puff of scar tissue on my left shoulder. “It looks like a gun shot wound.”
“Nothing so exciting,” I lied. “When I was a kid my brother poked me in the back with a stick he was using to roast marshmallows. We were out camping. By the time my folks got me home to a doctor, it was infected, so it left a big scar.”
He kissed my scar and murmured, “Ah, my little marshmallow puff.” He believed me.
Please leave a comment with your first 50 words on the topic “scar.”