Ficlets

Thingoff tapped his ring finger in a tattoo on the counter below him. Yesterday’s assessment had worn him out. Finger calisthenics could be hard on a young hand, and Thingoff had been thankful his dextro had helped him practice coin tricks.

He had noticed a new wrinkle next to his love line in the hand-mirror that morning. But he didn’t want to wake sweet Indexica with his neuroses. He left without signing goodbye.

A panel of decorated dextros and sinistros, rings glinting in the fluorescent light, waved for silence. Thingoff shook nervously. This was it. His handlers were about to announce his first assignment. Elder Palmer’s knuckle hair quivered as he began to sign: “E…A…”

“Oh, no. I’ll never come home again,” thought Thingoff. He turned to feel the air for Indexica. There she was, thirty hand-spans off, in the stands, bunched into a fist. Suddenly Thingoff longed to clasp her and shake her. But the gloved ones were already leading him away from the counter. “My love,” he signed…