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I didn’t want to upset him. I wanted to impress him.

He opened the car door for me. And I got in. Carefully. Gracefully. He closed the door on my hand. And I left my hand in the door.

He got in the car and we drove. Fifteen, twenty miles to dinner. He stopped the car and then he noticed.

“Your hand is in the door.”

“Oh really? Why yes. Yes!” I laughed carelessly as though I had forgotten.

I never really liked my hands much anyway—stubby, not long and lean. There were short brown hairs near my knuckles in both directions. So it was not hard for me just to leave it there, leave my hand in the door. My wrist, now that is much more attractive, and without the hand it would steal attention.

I left it there, my hand. It looked strange. Lost. Sulky. But it was no longer mine and it did not concern me. When he opened the door, it fell to the ground with a thump. It looked like a glove that had seen a bad day and lay frozen and stiff from the weather.

Dinner was good. I quickly adjusted to my new handlessness. It was exciting. A challenge. How do you cut the meat, for instance. Aha! Not easy.

I didn’t want to upset him. I wanted to impress him. A wrist is very handy. I could balance the fork just so, I was quite good at it actually. The wine was delicious. He is very brave.

I was starting to feel a little sad … from the wine, maybe. You get used to two hands. I had been raised with them. I started to feel sorry for the one in the parking lot, alone like a leftover. I considered for a moment that I could go get it, at least take it home, it would only be fair. He was talking about work.

I didn’t want to upset him so I excused myself. I was sticking to the chair. This had happened before. I have a little extra in the rear. He was noticing this time that something was wrong. I wanted to impress him. I was up, but my behind was not. It sat there without me. Before he saw I spread my napkin over it like a dead soldier. No need to upset him.

In the ladies room I looked in the mirror sideways as I do—to see the tummy, the behind—none there, just a sharp drop. I am crafty. All the better to impress him. I took the scarf from my neck and tied it around my waist, pleating it here and here. And you would have never noticed.

Back at the table I let him know that I was tired of that seat (the one with my rear in it) and chose one closer to him instead. I told him I was more comfortable being closer to him. He suggested we could get even closer. I was not feeling very good, but I didn’t want to upset him. He paid the bill. I had never liked my rear much. No, to be truthful it wasn’t hard to part with it. When we got to the car I looked down for the last time, just to say goodbye, but it wasn’t there. Dragged away or picked up or something. Que sera sera, I always say. And I didn’t want to upset him.

We drove to his place. Very impressive. Tall. Shiny. At least fifty floors. Tasteful lamps in the lobby. Oriental carpets. Dark wood floors. He led the way down the long hall, past the security door to the elevator. I followed and the door slid shut behind me very quickly, practically instantly. My knee was bent mid-step. The door cut through my calf like butter—as if it wasn’t even there. He didn’t notice, luckily. I liked those shoes.

We traveled upward for a long, long time. I used the minutes to find my new sense of balance. Quietly. Efficiently. I did not know how I would be able to get to his apartment so I leaned against his side. He took it as amour.

I moved quite skillfully, crutched on his shoulder. We reached the door to his apartment. Number fifty-two thirty-seven. I didn’t know how I was going to manage once inside. But it had been a lovely evening so far. And I didn’t want to upset him. I wanted to impress him.


Red Terror Seizes Vegas

The Venetian Resort-Hotel-Casino criticized the Culinary Workers Union Local 226 today for financing a known Communist to travel to Las Vegas in order to march with them on the Las Vegas Strip. Michele Vianello, deputy mayor of Venice and a member of the Democratic Party of the Left, was brought to Las Vegas as a part of the Culinary Union’s unsuccessful campaign to thwart the success of The Venetian.

“It is unconscionable that the Culinary Union would use their members’ hard-earned dollars to fly a Communist leader from Italy to Las Vegas to generate bad publicity for Las Vegas,” said William Weidner, president of Las Vegas Sands Inc., the parent company of The Venetian. “Mr. Vianello’s charge that one cannot recreate Venice is completely irrelevant. None of the resorts on the Strip are actually trying to recreate the cities they represent, nor are we. At The Venetian Resort-Hotel-Casino, we have created a world-class luxurious resort destination which is themed and pays tribute to the art, history, and romance of Venice. The Venetian is an asset to our tourism economy and it should not be criticized in such a superficial manner.”

—Digested from Business Wire

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