The Hand You’re Dealt

My short story collection, WHERE THE SHADOWS ARE SHOWN, is available for purchase from your local bookstore, (paperback) Amazon (paperback, ebook, audiobook), or get a signed copy through JoshsWorstNightmare.com (email josh [at] joshsworstnightmare [dot] com).

I dropped the package of frozen corn niblets I’d been holding in my hand as an ice pack onto my desk. Sitting in front of my laptop in my cramped, windowless office, I made a fist, and, wincing, opened it again to flex the sore tendons.

At the time, I blamed the injury on the previous day’s trip to the gym. Almost three years since I’d done a single bicep curl, I figured I overdid it trying to get my body back to what it was like when I first met Kerry. With her gone, I needed to accept that years of stuffing myself full of pasta, pie, and potato chips wouldn’t be reversed overnight.

My damned left hand bugged me all morning, distracting me from working on my slideshow on corporate’s new harassment policy. Of course, the delay was probably a blessing in disguise, as the few staff left at the dealership who didn’t already consider H.R. reps like me to be professional killjoys would probably turn against me after this presentation.

The new rules included things like “No innuendo,” which some read as “no jokes.” “No posting of suggestive cartoons or photos,” meaning the guys in the shop had to take down their swimsuit calendars. And, finally, “No unwelcome advances.” A moot point since almost everyone was married. Except me.

Sighing, I stretched the fingers of my aching hand and got back to work.

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***

I took the next couple of days off from the gym and did my best to favor my injured hand, which, since I was right-handed, wasn’t too difficult aside from the typing. Yet, despite my best efforts to let it heal, it only grew more sensitive, while the center of my palm broke out in an itchy pink rash like a baby’s butt after marinating in a piss-soaked diaper.

By mid-week, a little cleft formed in the groove of what Kerry had told me—the one time I let her read my palm—was my “head line.” While your life line was supposed to tell you about the quality of days to come, the head line had something to do with psychology. Though I never paid much attention to that new age stuff her hippie friends had turned her on to, I remember her saying my head line showed I was strong willed—no shit, Sherlock—with the ability to put “mind over matter.” Whatever that meant. She also told me it revealed an inner conflict, her segue into my so-called “commitment phobia.” Which was where the conversation ended, as always. And, the relationship, too, eventually.

When I woke Friday morning, the cleft was like a fresh paper cut the instant before blood wells to the surface. Or one of those old paintings of Jesus’ stigmata. At least it didn’t hurt anymore, just a slight irritation. I washed it out in the bathroom sink, and, once it air-dried, put on a bit of antibacterial ointment and one of those little circle bandages.

By the next morning, the wound’s edges had swollen. Painless though it was, I worried it might be infected. I cleaned it again and slathered on more ointment and a normal sized bandage, which I decided to leave on for the rest of the weekend in case all my poking around was keeping it from healing.

***

Monday morning after my shower, as I stood in my towel dripping on the tile, I ripped off the wet bandage. Shocked, I sucked in a sharp breath. The cut had deepened and formed two crinkled, slightly asymmetrical lips that resembled slices of dried apricot, with a small fold of skin towards the top. Crazy as the thought was, it looked a lot like a vagina.

But really, what the hell was it? I squinted. Some skin disease, maybe MRSA? Holding it up to the bulbs above the mirror, I revolved my hand and stared at it from different angles.

Still at a loss, I got an ear swab and pushed aside the flaps of skin to find a tiny nubbin of flesh. When I probed it, a ticklish jolt of pleasure ran up my spine. Stunned, I dropped the swab on the floor andheld the hand away from me, as if a snake’s head had just sprung from my wrist.

Was a part of the female anatomy really growing out of my hand? Was that even medically possible? If so, why in the world was it happening to me? And what was I supposed to do about it?

I nervously licked my dry lips. Kerry was a nurse. She’d know what was going on. But Kerry was gone. Probably already with some other guy. Of course, while a desperate woman drew dudes like yellowjackets to rotting fruit, the same scent on a man was lady-repellent.

Like a pot of rice left too long on the burner, the rage bubbled up from deep inside. I threw open the bathroom door, the knob banging the wall. I wrapped my good right hand around the knob and slammed it again and again and again against the cracking plaster until I made a hole.

Panting with the exertion, I unapologetically admired my work.

Shit! Work! I was late! Though fuming like a wood stove, I at least had the sense to realize getting fired wouldn’t help anything. Averting my eyes from the wound, I slapped one of those large adhesive pads over my palm, threw on some clothes, and headed out the door.

All day, I tried to ignore my hand, fighting the temptation to tear off the bandage and scrutinize it. I tinkered with the slideshow straight through my break, office door closed, in no mood to talk to anyone.

Around eleven someone knocked. I ignored it, but it kept up. “Yes?”

The door creaked open. Sandra, the new saleswoman—sorry, salesperson—frizzy blonde hair piled atop her head like a melting ice cream cone, barged in, Styrofoam cup in each hand.

“Haven’t seen you all day,” Sandra chirped, setting the cup of steaming, rancid-smelling coffee on my desk. “Thought you could use a little pick-me-up.”

“I’m more of a tea drinker.” I lifted the phone to get rid of her.

She forced a smile, nodded, and, leaving the coffee on my desk, hurried out of the room, forgetting to close the door behind her. I hung up, bolted from my chair, slammed the door, and paced the confines of my tiny office.

Yeah, I was being a dick, but I didn’t appreciate the way she was trying to weasel her way into being my friend. Which she was only doing because everyone else hated her for taking Hank’s job. Word was that corporate’s new push for diversity was the reason he was forced into retirement and Sandra was hired in his place. Whether that was actually true or not didn’t seem to matter to anyone.

By noon, a clear fluid began to seep through the bandage. I sniffed it. No stink of pus, more like a faint ocean breeze. But I needed to replace the bandage.

I waited until almost everyone had cleared out for lunch and made a beeline for the bathroom. Thankfully, it was empty, no feet under the stalls. I hoped when I took off the bandage it would look like a normal cut, that I had only imagined the weird thing.

When I peeled it away, all the spit in my mouth evaporated like a puddle on hot asphalt. I blinked a few times, as if to clear my eyes of some distorting film, but it was no use. The flushed lips. The soggy slit.

It was a vagina. An actual, living vagina. It couldn’t be anything else.

Tentatively, I prodded between the folds with my finger. It tingled and dampened. My breathing quickened. Unable to resist, I stuck in my finger up to the first joint. Instead of touching bones or tendons, it was soft, wet, and empty. My whole body shuddered in delight.

I slid my finger in deeper to the second joint. Turning my hand around to look at the back of it, I fully expected my finger to stick out the other side. But the skin was intact. It didn’t make any goddamn sense.

I jammed my entire finger in. And gasped. It felt incredible, like taking a sip of water when you’re really, really thirsty.

The bathroom door swung open. I drew my finger—now moist—out of the hole just as Stu walked in. I reached for the soap dispenser, squirted some onto my palm, and rubbed it into a lather under the faucet.

“How’s it hangin’?” His sheaf of blond hair slicked back on his big square head, dapper in suit coat and tie, Stu was the top salesman at the dealership. Outside of quarterly H.R. meetings, I hadn’t exchanged more than a dozen words with the guy. He grabbed my left wrist, yanked it out of the stream of hot water. “The fuck is that?” He stared at my hand.

“Cut myself.” I jerked out of his grip. Making a loose fist, I held it by my side, soapy water dripping on the floor as my fingertips pressed up against the gooey orifice.

“Looks pretty deep.” Stu furrowed his eyebrows so they almost met. “How’d you do it?”

“Opening a bottle,” I said, without missing a beat.

Stu looked me in the eyes, down to my hand, and back to my eyes. I swallowed uncomfortably but kept returning his gaze, knowing that to look away would be to admit I was lying. A drill whined from the garage.

“Use a bottle opener next time, genius.” Stu laughed and stepped over to the urinal.

As he pissed, I scurried out of the bathroom in relief and burst outside the showroom doors into the hot and humid June day. I speed-walked across the lot full of brand-new models to my hatchback at the edge of the woods. Sitting in the driver’s seat, I wiped my wet hand off with some tissues and laid a fresh bandage over my gaping palm. I started the ignition, tuned the radio to the local hard rock station, and cranked the volume.

For the next few minutes, I screamed every swear word in the English language until my throat was raw.

Was it genetic? Did someone else in the family have it and Mom and Dad just not tell me? Had I caught it at the strip club? Or was it a mutation, maybe from a chance exposure to some chemical or radioactive substance? Would it grow pubes? Start to menstruate? Would more and more pop up until I was covered head to toe in tiny beavers?

I picked up my phone, went online, and searched for “hand vagina” but only pulled up a YouTube video of some kid clasping his hands together obscenely. Queasy, I tossed the phone onto the seat.

Looking at the thing out of the corner of an eye, I wondered if it wouldn’t be the worst idea to chop my whole hand off. But even if I did, why would it stop there? Why not an asshole in the middle of my forehead? Or how about a few floppy dicks sprouting from my armpits?

Wasn’t it punishment enough to be a flipping H.R. rep at a car dealership? To have no one within a thousand miles I could honestly call a friend? To have lost the only woman I’d ever really felt close to?

Apparently not. No, the universe, for whatever reason, insisted that I be completely and forever alienated from every single member of my species by cursing me with a fucking…handgina!

A rabbit hopped out from beneath the trees into the parking lot. I lowered the volume on the radio and watched it scamper, stop, and look around, scamper, stop and look around, until it was out of sight. The invisible belt around my chest went out a notch.

If I’d learned anything from the whole Kerry thing, it was that going apeshit only made a bad situation worse. A clear head was what I needed. I forced myself to take a few deep breaths and try to get a grip.

The first thing I had to do was go to the doctor. But even if I got over the humiliation, I’d end up with a line of medical students wanting to poke and prod me. Once word got out, I’d become a complete outcast, lose my job, and have to skip town. Probably end up travelling the heartland in some circus freak show. “Come one, come all, feast your eyes on the amazing Mr. Pussyhand!”

I stared at my bandaged hand, projecting a beam of seething hatred at the intruder.

No, I’d take care of things myself. It was just flesh, after all. No different than a mole or wart or tumor. It if could grow, it could be removed.

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***

I struggled my way through the rest of the workday and on the way home stopped at the drug store to pick up a box of wound closure strips. When I got back to the house, I stuck the strips on, sealing things up tight as I could, and waited for nature to take its course.

That night I dreamt of Kerry. Making love to her on a blanket by the river, the way we did our first time. It was so dark I could barely make out her face, though I could hear her moaning and the rush of water over rocks. After a particularly deep thrust, I tried to pull myself back out of her but couldn’t. A suction as if from an industrial-strength vacuum cleaner held me tight and started to draw me further inside. No matter how I struggled, I couldn’t detach myself.

As the pressure grew more intense, her opening seemed to widen so my entire member was engulfed, shaft, balls, and all. I tried to push against her shoulders but kept slipping further inside, first my pelvis, then my hips. I jammed a knee against her stomach, but her skin was too greasy to get any purchase.

My entire body slipped down this mucousy chute. The starry night sky disappeared as I dropped blindly into black open space, arms and legs flailing with nothing to grab.

I woke up screaming. I was inside myself.

With a sucking sound, I tore my hand away from my crotch and snapped on the bedside light. My fully engorged cock shuddered, and the hole in my hand gaped redly, shot through with a mixture of pleasure and pain—like a tickling gone on too long—the useless closure strips peeled off to either side.

Panicked, I ran to the bathroom and held my pulsing palm under scalding water for at least five minutes, trying to drown the monstrosity.

Things had gone too far. I’d literally just fucked myself.

I raced madly to the kitchen and rooted around the drawers, tossing pens, rubber bands, and screwdrivers on the floor until I found Kerry’s sewing kit. Marched into the bathroom, and, though it was tricky with my shaking hand, threaded up a needle. Found a bottle of rubbing alcohol and splashed it on my palm. Relishing the biting pain, I sewed the slit up tight with a few dozen stitches, tied a knot, and snapped off the end of the thread with my teeth. I slapped on a fresh bandage.

Sitting on the closed toilet lid, I felt hollowed out, missing Kerry worse than I’d ever missed anyone in my life. Not for sex or anything, just to hold me. Tell me everything was going to be okay. That I wasn’t some mutated freak of nature fated to be alone for the rest of my life. But my woman was gone. And for the first time I wondered if maybe it’d been a tiny bit my fault.

It wasn’t like I’d ever said I didn’t want to get married and have kids someday. I told her the truth, that even though I wasn’t going to rush into any of that, I could see myself wanting it eventually. She was only thirty-one, not some ancient crone.

Was that why, towards the end, she hardly spoke to me unless I started the conversation myself? Why she felt the need to contradict me all the time? Why she just lay there motionless in bed as if wishing she were someplace else?

Like a sudden punch to the gut, it hit me. She’d never loved me. Just been using me as a tool to fulfill her biological urge to procreate. Once she suspected I might not play the role she demanded of me, she shrugged me off like a winter coat in May.

Wide awake, I laid out on the couch in front of the TV and flipped through the channels. I settled on Showgirls and watched until I fell asleep halfway through.

Woke up with a crick in my neck, arm splayed out to my side, far away from me as possible. It burned and ached, which I hoped meant it was healing.

***

All day at work, my hand felt like it was smothering. I was so tired I could barely keep my eyes open and so anxious I struggled to focus on a single task. Still, I was optimistic. Maybe, like a dolphin or whale, if I covered up its blowhole long enough it would suffocate.

Everything annoyed me, from Sandra chatting me up after bringing me a lukewarm green tea I didn’t ask for, to the teeth-grinding whine of drills from the shop.

When I got home, I changed the bandage and was glad to see the stitches holding tight. I took some aspirin, iced it, and fell into a fitful sleep in front of the TV.

***

The rest of the week at the office passed excruciatingly slow, though I snuck in a few naps. My hand throbbed, the thing begging to be released from its stitches. But I showed it no mercy.

By the end of the day on Friday, I put the finishing touches on the harassment slideshow I’d present on Monday, thereby solidifying my status as office pariah. I honestly didn’t care about any of that anymore, only wanted to get it over with. On the way home, I figured I’d pick up a bottle of whisky and drink myself stupid through the weekend. If I got incredibly lucky, maybe I’d get alcohol poisoning and never wake up. I shut down my computer and the screen went black.

“Whaddup homeslice!” Stu leaned in my open doorway.

Had I forgotten a meeting with him today? “Just about to head home.”

“Got your girl waiting, give you a little sumpin’ sumpin’?”

I shook my head.

“Oh, c’mon man,” Stu said, hands on hips. “I seen her come in the office before. Not bad, not bad at all.”

“We broke up,” I said nonchalantly as possible.

“Ah, sorry to hear that, man.” A brief smile flashed across his ruddy face. “You a hockey fan?”

“Who isn’t?” I wasn’t. Never much of a sports guy, I probably hadn’t watched more than five full minutes of the game in my life.

“Me and the guys are heading over to Lucky’s for the playoffs.” He looked down at the floor, rubbing his elbow. “Wanna come?”

Of course, I wanted to go. It was the first time anyone at the dealership had asked me to do anything social after work. But I couldn’t. My hand was killing me, like something was trying to burst out of it.

“Wish I could,” I said, truthfully enough. “But I’ve got some stuff to take care of around the house.”

“Sounds pretty lame.”

I shrugged. It did.

“How about you come for one beer.” Stu grinned slyly. “And then you can go home and take care of your precious stuff.”

I wasn’t sure I could keep it together, figuratively or literally. But I also knew full well this would probably be my one and only chance to hang with the guys. With enough effort, I supposed I could keep the charade up for another hour, and, who knows, maybe it’d even take my mind off things.

“Alright.” I was surprised to feel my lips curl into actual smile. “Meet you there in a few.”

***

Soon as I walked into the bar, I almost turned around and went home. The ceilings were too low, the jukebox screeched out some awful Heart song from the eighties, the whole room stunk like body odor, and there were a few clusters of noisy, plaid-shirted hipsters hanging around the pool tables. But Stu, sitting at a high top with a couple of the other salesmen, waved me over.

I shook Stu’s sweaty hand, nodded at Malcolm, wiry with a shaved head and a scorpion tattoo on his forearm, and smiled at big fat Larry. I dragged a stool over as Stu poured me a mug of yellow beer from a pitcher.

Hockey was more interesting than I’d given it credit for. Though it was a little hard to follow the puck, I appreciated the non-stop action. And the guys were actually really cool. We debated which was the worst Adam Sandler movie, and they laughed at most of my jokes. Stu even had me pick out an appetizer—loaded potato skins—and said he’d foot the bill.

I insisted on buying the second pitcher of beer. And then the third.

When the game ended, I regretfully told the guys I needed to head home. Fully buzzed, I’d barely even thought about my hand for the past two hours, but now it was throbbing again. I needed to ice it, take an aspirin, and get some sleep.

“Dude.” Stu clapped a hand on my shoulder. “You’re too fucked up to drive.”

“Naw, I’m good.” The fact that I never drove drunk meant the chances I’d be pulled over the one time I did were astronomically low.

“I’ll drive you home, and we can come back tomorrow for your car,” Stu said.

“You’ve been drinking, too.”

“Nowhere near as much as you.” Stu did seem pretty sober, his gaze steady and clear. Come to think of it, I’d only seen him refill his mug the one time.

He grasped my elbow and pulled. “C’mon let’s go.” I was too wasted to resist.

“We’ll see you guys Monday,” he called out to Malcolm and Larry.

I stumbled a bit as we walked across the parking lot, but Stu held me steady. Like a gentleman, he opened the door of his SUV for me, helped me in, and even buckled my seatbelt.

It made me dizzy to keep my eyes open, so I closed them.

***

When I woke up, Stu was gnawing at my palm, the back of his blond head barely visible in the moonlight. Breath hot and moist, his teeth pinched my skin.

“What’re you doing?” I blurted, still half out of it. We were parked near some woods. “Where are we?”

“Shhhh.” Tightening his grip on my wrist, Stu started licking my hand, which smarted like a wasp had stung it.

Mostly coming back to myself, I wriggled my hand away from him. In the dimness, I could see the bandage was gone and half the stitches had been chewed off. “The hell, man!”

“Thought you wanted to.” He seized my wrist in a vice lock. The button of his jeans was undone.

I had trouble focusing my eyes, and my head bobbed to the side, somehow too heavy for my neck. All I knew was I had to get out of there.

As he dug his fingers into my wrist, I flailed out my right arm and reached for the door handle, which, after some fumbling, I was able to pull back. It swung open.

He let go of my wrist and snatched my shirt collar instead. Without thinking, I made a fist with my newly freed left hand and blindly swung upward. As my knuckles connected with his jaw, Stu’s teeth snapped together, and he bellowed in pain.

“My fucking tongue!” he lisped, as I rolled out the door and fell to the gravel.

I was so woozy I seriously considered lying there, but the sound of Stu’s door opening gave me the jolt I needed to spring to my feet and take off stumbling into the night. The thumbprint three-quarters moon had cleared the treetops and illuminated a small parking lot surrounded by woods on three sides. The adrenalin cut through the alcohol and gave me energy to bolt into the darkness of the trees.

As I crunched in a mad dash over sticks and dead leaves fragrant with decay, Stu’s footsteps clattered on the gravel behind me. “Come back, dude! It was a joke!”

The hell it was. Branches slashed my face, neck, and arms, and though it took all my focus to stay on my feet, I kept weaving through the trees. A shimmering ahead. Maybe someone could help! As the woods thinned, a body of dark water appeared. I staggered out of the trees onto a sandy beach beside a massive lake reeking of algae. Across the water, probably a quarter mile away, the red running lights of a few cars. My heart sank.

Running along the beach, feet punching through the soft sand, it all looked vaguely familiar. Of course! Plum Creek Reservoir!

The winter before, on a cold sunny day, Kerry and I’d taken a stroll there, tossed rocks onto the ice to test its thickness, and had a little picnic. Jogging on, breath whistling through my lungs, I would’ve given everything to go back to that day and start again.

“Wait!” Stu yelled, crashing out of the trees and sprinting onto the beach. “I just wanna talk!”

The fact that he was gaining on me blew away most of the alcohol fumes from my brain, and I put on added surge of speed. My thighs burned, but I kept digging in my feet. The moon slid behind a cloud, and everything got dark. Then the ground gave out from under me. I slipped on my ass and plunged feet-first into shockingly cold water.

Head exploding with terror, I thrashed my arms and legs to stay afloat, but somehow I’d already sunk to the bottom of the lake and was flat on my back, elbows buried in the sticky mud. I managed to keep my mouth shut but had never been good at holding my breath. My chest hitched, and I knew I had mere seconds before I ran out of air.

With a superhuman effort, I spun my body so I was on my hands and knees and pushed off the mucky bottom in hopes of propelling myself back to the surface.

Spluttering, I got to my feet. I stood in a slow-moving creek, the water barely up to my thighs. It flowed for another ten yards through tall grass where it emptied into the reservoir. I stood there a moment, dripping, shivering, and laughing gratefully, until a hoarse voice shouted my name.

My loafers weighed down with water, I lurched upstream as the creek wound back into the safety of the woods. Shuddering with cold and nerves, I stopped every few minutes to listen but heard nothing more than the trickle of water. I climbed out of the creek, and, after dumping water from my shoes, walked along the bank, easy enough in the ample moonlight. Since the road encircled the reservoir, as long as I kept following the creek, I’d find the way out sooner or later.

My mind was like a bike chain that’d briefly fallen off its gears yet was back on track again. I was still a little drunk—drugged?—but could think clearly. As I trudged onward, I took stock of my situation.

Stu had molested me. Or, more specifically, my hand—which, though it felt scratchy, I was afraid to look at. Regardless, I was a victim of assault. Which was a crime. And, though I seemed to have lost him, I was still being chased by my attacker.

I extracted my phone from my back pocket, praying it still worked. Amazingly, it did. I dialed 9-1. Then stopped. And shoved the phone back in my pocket.

What would I even tell police? Would they believe me? And, if they did, what questions would they ask? No, the only thing that mattered was getting the hell out of there. I’d get to the road and call for a ride and weigh my other options later.

After another several minutes tracing the creek, beyond a screen of trees I could make out a patch of grass with a few picnic benches, the road right behind it. I’d found it but was far from home free. I still needed to be careful. First, I had to figure out what side of the reservoir I was on, then I’d make the call.

I crept across the picnic area and onto the road. After looking both ways and listening with hands cupped over my ears, I decided to walk to the right, the opposite direction from where Stu had parked. Less than a minute later, the rumble of an engine.

Heart in my throat, I sprinted back into the woods and dove headfirst into the leaf litter like a baseball player into home. Not ten seconds later Stu’s SUV cruised slowly around the bend, headlights off. Motionless, I lay on my belly with eyes closed, trying to imagine myself invisible, until the vehicle was out of earshot.

With no time to waste, I took out my phone and searched for Kerry’s contact, knowing full well I’d deleted it the day she left. Racking my tired brain, I tried several wrong combinations of numbers until I pulled up the call log. My spirit leapt with joy. There it was! Though it went straight to voice mail, I left a message asking her to please call me back right away. Seconds later, she did.

“Kerry?” I stage whispered.

“It’s late,” she groaned. “What do you want?”

“I’m in trouble.”

Silence.

“Can you pick me up?” I asked.

“Are you drunk?”

“No—” I stopped myself. “Yes, but that’s not—”

“I knew it. Try me again when you’re sober.”

“Wait, wait, please.” More silence. “You still there?”

“Why don’t you just call an Uber?”

“Because I need you.” I broke down sobbing.

“You okay?” she asked with what sounded like genuine concern.

Licking salty tears from the corner of my mouth, it finally dawned on me how selfish I’d been to pin her down in a relationship when I was still uncertain about starting a family. In time, I’m sure I would’ve taken the leap, but I just couldn’t be rushed. Of course, as a man who could theoretically get the job done for decades to come, it was an easy decision for me to put off. But with her narrower window, could I really blame her for the unspoken ultimatum?

“I think so,” I said. “Can you please come?”

“Alright, I’m leaving now. Where are you?”

I explained my location as best I could and told her to text me when she passed the picnic area.

For the better part of an hour I crouched petrified behind a tree by the side of the road. Finally, I got the text. Here.

Sure enough, headlights.

I stood up and took a single step, then decided to wait a second just to be sure. My cheek pressed against the rough bark of the tree, a vehicle slowly approached. Stu’s SUV. Heart jackhammering my ribcage, I held my breath until the taillights disappeared around a bend.

A few minutes later, another vehicle puttered along from the same direction. I called Kerry, and she picked up.

“If that’s you, pull over,” I whispered into the phone.

The vehicle stopped.

Kerry and I didn’t exchange a single word as we drove the dark road around the reservoir—no sign of Stu’s SUV—and then picked up the highway. There was so much I wanted to say to her but didn’t know where to begin. She kept sneaking glances but knew me well enough not to pry. Not until we were parked in my driveway did I break the silence.

“Something’s happening to me.” I met her eyes for the first time in what felt like forever.

Kerry nodded and gave a sad smile.

“I’m changing and I don’t know what’s going on,” I said. “I’m scared.”

She touched my left hand, and, instinctively, I drew it away from her.

She cleared her throat. “I should probably get going.”

I sighed. Now or never. I flicked on the dashboard light. “I want you to see something.” I held out my palm, which felt raw and exposed, and peered out the window so I didn’t have to see the inevitable disgust on her face.

She cradled my hand in hers. “What is it?”

“Exactly what it looks like.” I forced myself to look at her. Instead of a scrunched-up mask of revulsion, Kerry’s pretty face was unlined and calm, brows raised in curiosity.

“Have you been to the doctor—“

“No, I haven’t.” And I wouldn’t be going, either.

“It’s definitely weird.” She set my hand down in my lap. “How does something like that even happen?”

“I’m not exactly sure,” I said. “But I think I’m starting to understand.”

“Understand what?”

Though I didn’t—couldn’t—know the details, I had no doubt that some force in the universe was sending me a message in the only way I could understand. And, indeed, even with this brief experience under my belt, so many of my assumptions about the world—and women, in particular—fell by the wayside.

Out of words, I leaned in for a hug. It felt so good to hold her, like snuggling under a down blanket on a frigid winter’s night. After a few seconds of hesitation, she hugged me back.

“Gonna head home.” Kerry patted me on the shoulder.

Reluctantly, I unwrapped my arms from around her. I didn’t want her to go but knew she had to. Still, I needed to give it one last try. “You think we could maybe meet for coffee sometime?”

Kerry searched my face for a moment. “There is something different about you.” Then laughed. “I mean, besides the obvious.”

I held my breath. “That a yes?”

“Consider it a firm maybe.” She started the ignition.

***

I woke up around noon after ten hours of deep dreamless sleep to the realization that my house had become a total sty. Shooing away the fruit flies, I rinsed the dirty dishes stacked in the kitchen sink, sponged off the crusty counter, swept and mopped the sticky floor.

I texted a bit with Kerry, and we agreed to meet at a teahouse downtown after work on Monday. She insisted it wasn’t a date, but still I couldn’t stop smiling. If this was my second chance, I was not going to blow it.

The night before, I’d plucked the stitches from my hand and cleaned out the mud and grit but hadn’t bothered with any ointment or bandage. I finally accepted that, whatever it was, it wasn’t a wound, and the best thing I could do was stop making such a big deal about it.

What I couldn’t make sense of was what’d happened to me out at the reservoir. I hadn’t really processed it the night before, but like a time-release capsule, the awfulness of the situation finally dawned on me. I was vacuuming the living room when a clear image of Stu slobbering over my hand like a St. Bernard flashed through my mind. Chest tight and stomach churning, I dropped the vacuum on the floor and dashed over to the front door to make sure it was locked. It was the first time I could remember feeling unsafe in my own home.

I spent the rest of the weekend cleaning, trying not to think about the incident. Yet, by the time Sunday evening rolled around my stomach felt like a blender set to frappé. How could I go back to work with Stu there? If not for the presentation, I would’ve called in sick.

I pictured myself driving over to the salesman’s house, ringing the doorbell, and when Stu answered, jamming a screwdriver in his eye socket. Physically and emotionally, I knew I could do it, and if there’d been even a fifty percent chance of getting away with it, I might’ve tried. But I didn’t know the first thing about murdering and would obviously get caught, having been the last person he was seen with at the bar.

I furiously scrubbed the stained toilet and scoured every inch of the grimy tub.

And the police? Even if I endured the suspicion, accusations, and humiliation of filing a report and being questioned, was licking someone’s hand even a crime? And if it was, what proof did I have? No, it would simply be another case of he said/she said and more trouble than it was worth. Maybe it’d be best if I pretended it never happened.

Numb on the inside, I wrung out the sponge in the sink and watched the dirty water disappear down the drain.

***

In the shower Monday morning I took the first hard look at my hand in nearly forty-eight hours. The thing had shriveled ever so slightly, lips deflated, opening shrunk. I didn’t want to get my hopes up, but maybe—just maybe—it was healing. I toweled myself off and almost put on a bandage, but since airing it out seemed to be helping, left it uncovered.

On the drive over to the dealership, I fretted about what I’d do when I saw Stu. I wasn’t sure if I’d have a panic attack or would throttle him. Thankfully, when I got in, he wasn’t at his desk. Part of me was relieved, though I knew sooner or later we’d cross paths.

I sat in my office with the door closed and ran through the slides on my laptop. Before I knew it, it was 9:45. Sweat leaking down my ribcage, I walked over to the conference room, hooked up my laptop to the projector, and waited for people to trickle in. As the dozen or so chairs filled up, I watched the door for Stu, who was supposed to be part of the first group. At 10 o’clock on the dot, Malcolm and Larry rolled in, but no Stu.

I asked someone to turn off the lights and began. Clicking through slides with clipart mechanics and stock photos of blandly attractive models in pantsuits, I reminded people that if they thought a comment or action might be inappropriate, it probably was, and gave some examples. Though I caught a few stifled yawns, all eyes were on me, and I heard not so much as a single groan.

Halfway through, the door opened, and my breath caught. I pretended not to notice Stu standing there uncertainly for a few seconds before he walked in and took a seat in the back. My mind swirling, I had the impulse to run out of the room and lock myself in my office. Or better yet, dash out of the building, race home, and bury my head under the covers.

But—almost of their own volition—my hands curled into fists, and I continued the presentation, dedicating a full five minutes to the importance of consent. At the end, I received a polite smattering of applause, and the lights came back on. Sandra, sitting in the front row, beamed at me.

My eyes fell on Stu, who immediately looked away.

“Any questions?” I asked, trying to understand what made guys like him tick. Had no one had ever held him accountable for his actions before? Maybe because he was charming and handsome, Stu had been rewarded for his bad behavior and literally didn’t think the rules applied to him. Perhaps if someone had stood up to him in the past, he wouldn’t have tried what he had with me.

Before I could stop myself, I spoke. “How about you, Stu? What did you learn?”

I watched his ruddy face drain of most of its color. “Sexual harassment is bad?”

Malcolm tittered, and I shot a withering glance his way, shutting him up instantly.

“How so?” I asked.

Stu shrugged. “Because of rights and stuff.”

“One last question.” I let an awkward silence hang for a count of five. “What does consent mean to you?”

“Uh.” His Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed. “No means no?”

“Any other questions?” While directed at the group, my eyes didn’t leave Stu’s.

He shook his head.

“So, you get it?” I asked.

Stu nodded emphatically, a plea for mercy in his eyes. Maybe I hadn’t changed his views. But having called him out publicly, while also giving him a chance to mend his ways, I had a strong feeling his days of taking advantage of people—in that way, at least—were over. Whether that was true or not would remain to be seen.

“Good job, everyone.” I gave them a small round of applause. “Now, back to work.”

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