Five Fingers, Five Friends

Five Fingers, Five Friends.

Thumb was rotund and short, with crooked teeth and a furrowed brow. He had thick hair, baby blue eyes, and a sniffing nose. He liked to brood and take control. When a conversation went a way that didn't please him, he said so, and changed the subject. He had little man's complex and puffed up his chest to show that he was strong. Deep inside, underneath the layers of skin and cells, he was soft, or so I thought. Who is to say really?

Thumb and I met for drinks. The red candlelight enunciated his bone structure and his eagerness to get over his craving for Spanish rice. He licked his lips and talked. I was surprised because I thought he was a good listener, but maybe not tonight. He tried to kiss me underneath the moonlight, but I was hesitant. It could have been worse. It could have been better. But I did feel like I knew him for years.

Mr. Pointer was scrappy and intense, with deep sunken eyes and hair of amber. His face reminded me of a delicate skeleton's, harsh and vulnerable, bare and angry. Small nose, long lashes. Time had changed my range and motion with him. Began as a budding flower, then opened to reveal the pollen, and now the falling, browning petals. More like egg shells and shards of glass.

Mr. P and I spoke over the phone. His voice always sounded different, and thus I constantly forgot who he was until I heard the gravel on the other end of the line. Agitation and exasperation hung on his lips like dried saliva. He had a way of ending things without ending them. He'd slowly stop responding, give a curt reply, or spit out a sarcastic remark - all which shut me down. The seed was no longer a seed, but I wanted to keep the remaining petals from wilting. Not sure how, and he won't tell me. He thrives on secrets, though he claims not to keep any.

Mid was goofy and lanky. He towered over me and the other minions like the jolly green giant, except not green. He looked stoned, though he wasn't, technically. He was against the reefer, against alcohol, against chemical enhancement - this turned me on. We could talk for hours, but it was only a conversation after I asked it to be. He was kind and that was clear. In his touch and his hesitation to touch.

Mid and I met for a movie. It was the only time we could meet, because he lacked motivation and was stuck in a rut, literally. He lived in a pot hole, on the side of the road. The flick was fun and we laughed and I put my head on his shoulder and he awkwardly tried to put his arm around me. It was uncomfortable and he could tell, so he removed it. This was sweet, and I enjoyed the gentleness of the giant.

Ring had green eyes engulfed in blue and strong, yet feminine hands. His smile lines told the story of his heart, and made him incapable of having a winning poker face. Ring was chivalrous - he opened doors, paid for meals, checked in every day, gave practical advice, and genuinely cared.

Ring and I sat in the park. He wiped the black off my face with a damp touch. We laughed after time, but he was simple. In darker topics of conversation he got silent and giggled nervously and changed the subject. But maybe this was good for me. Maybe I need the ring without a tarnished jewel.

Pinky was short and disarming with round spectacles and a piercing nose that went well with his bright eyes. His openness, his experiments frightened me. He loved life, that was clear. He was an amalgam of movement and senses and sight and sound and touch. He would talk to a random stranger, and feel as though he were talking to God. Maybe he wasn't cynical enough for me.

Pinky and I danced together. We bobbed our heads to the beat - the only two on the dance floor. We sipped our bubbled drinks, encased in flutes, letting the glass clink together, but not our bodies. We stepped outside and the night went from light to dark, from fast to slow. The world stopped spinning and I hoped he kept his distance.

Those are my five fingers. They are connected to my palm. Each one different, with a separate purpose and function, some more necessary than others. And yet they all have wrinkled knuckles, painted nails of the same chipped turquoise color, blue veins, callouses, and tremors.

I think I'll cut all my fingers off with a sharpened knife, let the blood drain out and the bones fall to the ground. Without my fingers, I can still feel, I can still touch, my palm grazing against surfaces and skin.

I won't be able to attach, because fingers cling and hold and grab and pull. Without them there is no latching on, no tugging, no pushing away. Just touching.

But, I think that's all I need. Because if you don't attach, you don't have to let go, and then it doesn't hurt when there is nothing to hold on to but air.