The finger would not heal. The hand was beginning to panic. It had been seven days now, and the situation was going from horrid to hopeless. What had begun as a minor skin irritation had progressed to a full-blown festering sore impossible to hide with liquid makeup. And The I’m Okayers were due the next morning.
Last month The I’m Okayers had praised the hand for the first time -- remarking on its uniformity, its symmetrical perfection. The hand had bristled at the “p” word, fearing the wrath of The Perfect One who had been shriveled in dishwater only to rise again thanks to visualization techniques and Lubriderm. The Perfect One frowned on contenders.
Antibiotics might have helped the finger, but antibiotics were prescribed only to the hands proclaimed perfect three months running. The hand throbbed with increasing panic. It stayed up all night googling possible solutions. As the sun rose higher in the sky, the other fingers tried to shelter their middle offender who was gesturing wildly in a unique form of SOS.
The hand’s mate, determined to be judged perfect this time, had spent the month preparing delicacies to entice The I’m Okayers. Greenish with envy, it had been too busy chopping and dicing to notice anything amiss with its counterpart. On finally seeing the pus-oozing gesturing finger, it reacted instinctively. A flying fetid finger hit the first of The I’m Okayers to walk through the door. Somewhere The Perfect One smiled.
Rust Belt Review #7