My pinky twitches.
If you didn’t know, you’d swear it had been broken once, sticking out like a cowlick from my left hand.
It weakens my grip. Makes him call me clumsy. And it wrenches away at his touch, a worm wriggling free.
It has a mind of its own, which I envy.
She never announces herself adequately. It's either weeks before in a florid, purple envelope, giving me weeks to ruminate, or completely unannounced, catching me in a dressing gown or some other emotionally or physically compromising position.
She never comes when he's around. Does she smell it? Does