I’ve always hated my fat fucking balloon of a left thumb. Before I met Steve, I wondered if I’d ever find a man willing to love someone with such a sick deformity. On our dates, I’d try to cover my left hand. I’d hide it with long sweater sleeves or clasp my right hand over it. It’s been almost 10 months and I wonder how much longer I can hide my fat left grasper from such a sweet man. Oh, Steve! You sweet bald idiot. You drink bad craft beer because you associate it with Hemmingway and other white sis-hetero men who think the NFL should’ve signed Kaepernick. I hear you on the phone with your friends saying things like: dude! Did you see [insert player] is out for the season? Or: fuck yeah, head shot! You’re perfect, you make me normal. Seen. I walk into rooms with you and feel at ease. The fat blob on my hand stays hidden in fabric or gripped tight in my fist. I’m just like you, Steve. Your friends all say we’re a perfect match. That I’m a sweet girl. If only they knew about my thumb! But it gets harder, everyday. So, tonights the fucking night. I can’t bear it any longer. I’m showing him my fat poker!
He returns from work and falls onto my couch.
‘Hey baby,’ I say.
Steve grunts. I love his grunts!
‘I have something I have to show you. It’s a big deal for me, okay? I’ve sorta been hiding it from you.’
He perks up. ‘What is it?’
‘It’s something I feel really weird about, so please be nice?’ I ask.
He shrugs. ‘Obvi, babe. I’m chill.’
‘Well, fuck it,’ I say, and shove my thick blobby boi in his face.
‘Oh my god!’ He screams.
‘Baby, please,’ I murmur. But he’s grabbing his baseball bat from the corner.
I knew he’d find out, sooner or later, that I’m a–
‘Monster!’ He shouts.
And the bat connects with my skull.