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#a61 :: Artist’s hand model

April 14, 2008

ENLARGEIt was the first thing she had put out on the thrashed card table at the group yard sale.

She had meant it that way, erectile a break from the failed career, from the crushed dream, from the gorgeous, neurotic, narcissistic jerk who gave it to her.

But here it was still: The last thing to be boxed up for GoodWill so they could sweep and put away the tables and retire inside for one more frozen Margarita and god knows what all else the evening held.

It should have sold earlier – hell, $1.50 knocked down to 50 cents, and it still didn’t move.

But after the fifth giggling kid in a row had left it with three fingers and thumb clenched around its raised middle digit she could bear it no longer and moved it out of reach, to the back of the table.

She restored its articulated knuckles to the graceful suggestion of direction it had held ever since … the thumb clasped around beneath the straight-angled index finger, others curled neatly beside as if to say “There, that way, go that way” … ever since Jason dumped her.

Was it pathos or bathos she was enduring now? She couldn’t be sure. The classics professor had been so ungodly dull.

She stared down at it, struggling to block visions of him giving her the box with puppydog eyes, of him stroking her breast with it, picking his ear with it, leaving it with pinky and thumb extended from fist in the corny-hippy Hawaiian “hang loose” gesture whenever he left in the morning.

Finally, she flipped it into the trash. Then she thought about it all the next day on the bus to art school.

Filed under: Fetish, Microfiction, Miniature, Model, Tool | Comments (0)

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