There was a spot in Lola's heart that never filled in, even after his prefrontal cortex matured when he turned twenty-five. He thought his heart would’ve caught up by then, but there was still a fist-sized hole in the muscle and even though the arteries pumped blood and he could feel it beat, the skin caved there whenever someone mentioned it. He covered it up to make himself feel better.
The worst part was that Lola knew part of his heart was still out there, and that someone had dug it out with their fingernails. The part that made him feel better was the knowledge he’d ripped away their thumbs in exchange.
Lola found himself washed up most days, standing in a lobby or a parking lot, looking at a little slip of paper. A rejection notice, a parking ticket. Sometimes he ripped them up and stuffed them inside the hole in his heart, hoping it would fill him up a little, but they just gouged and infected. Lola would look into the mirror to check on the damage and feel someone running their fingers through his hair and over his chest, a whisper tugging on the red heartstrings tied to their thumbs.
One day, Lola put on a nice, white shirt, picked up his resume, and walked to the nearby law firm. He’d been avoiding it. It had a sign outside advertising low prices like a sandwich shop, and Lola thought his data entering skills might be valued at more than a six-inch sub. But he was out of work and out of food and out to sea, at this point.
Squinting to see past the reflection, Lola opened the glass door, and crashed his skull against the man walking out.
* * * * *
Tom had eight fingers, four on each hand. He held things with his elbows, like paperwork, and with the side of his head, like a phone, and when people were watching, he could use the phantom thumbs like they were real, especially if he ignored the way that the pen always floated in the air with a finger on one side.
Tom went to the doctor for his weekly injections, even at twenty-seven, because he didn’t want to risk the phantom thumbs disappearing while pushing a needle into his skin. His friends called him childish and told him to get a grip and Tom laughed them off, then got back to work. They all saw ten fingers, but after those conversations, Tom wrote with eight for the rest of the day.
When the colleagues would walk down the street in the evenings, someone in their group would call out to a woman none of them knew. No one ever did anything about it. Tom would grit his teeth and think about having thumbs. He wanted to apologize but instead tipped the bartendress extra and pretended a little more.
When Tom would get home, he would do everything with eight fingers. He cooked, washed his face, ironed his shirts, and proved he could have a grip on life without thumbs.
One night, Tom felt a weight on the mattress next to him, and pulling the sheet with tangled fingers, he swallowed a name that hurt to hold on his tongue. He sighed and felt his own breath flow back into his face, tinged with the smell of familiar skin.
He woke up frustrated and took the bus frustrated. At the office, Tom wiped the dust off his decorations. The framed law degree, the books, but not the jar. He liked to ignore the jar. The red flesh inside made his thumbs hurt: a too-tight string tied between two missing parts of people.
Hours later, Tom pulled on a sweater and took his lunch break. He scrolled through his phone as he walked and before he could open the door, a man strode through and rammed him with a crack on the forehead.
* * * * *
The two men raise simultaneous palms to their heads, curse, and blink. The receptionist asks if they’re okay.
“Yeah, all good.”
“I’m fine.”
“Sorry, man,” Lola says. He sweeps his hair back across his forehead. “Should’ve watched where I was going.”
“Not a problem,” Tom says. He stands there for a moment. Lola feels to him like how his thumbs feel, like he’s missing. It’s like there’s a void instead of a grown man in front of him.
Lola can’t help staring at Tom. He wouldn’t say that he’d followed his heart to this job — not after avoiding it like a bad sandwich — but he thinks he followed his heart right to collision.
“Are you applying?” Tom asks, stalling.
“Oh. Uh, yeah. Thinking about it.”
Of course, neither of them think of the other by name. The men are strangers now, even if, in a different time, they would dance for hours in the dark and pretend to be whole. But that’s how things go around here, when one has a missing chunk of heart and the other has eight fingers.
And then they run into each other again at the diner where they both buy overpriced sandwiches. And then Lola’s coat curves into the alcove in his chest, and Tom’s fries float in the air when he eats, and both see each other from across the room.
No one else notices.
The worst part was that Lola knew part of his heart was still out there, and that someone had dug it out with their fingernails. The part that made him feel better was the knowledge he’d ripped away their thumbs in exchange.
Lola found himself washed up most days, standing in a lobby or a parking lot, looking at a little slip of paper. A rejection notice, a parking ticket. Sometimes he ripped them up and stuffed them inside the hole in his heart, hoping it would fill him up a little, but they just gouged and infected. Lola would look into the mirror to check on the damage and feel someone running their fingers through his hair and over his chest, a whisper tugging on the red heartstrings tied to their thumbs.
One day, Lola put on a nice, white shirt, picked up his resume, and walked to the nearby law firm. He’d been avoiding it. It had a sign outside advertising low prices like a sandwich shop, and Lola thought his data entering skills might be valued at more than a six-inch sub. But he was out of work and out of food and out to sea, at this point.
Squinting to see past the reflection, Lola opened the glass door, and crashed his skull against the man walking out.
* * * * *
Tom had eight fingers, four on each hand. He held things with his elbows, like paperwork, and with the side of his head, like a phone, and when people were watching, he could use the phantom thumbs like they were real, especially if he ignored the way that the pen always floated in the air with a finger on one side.
Tom went to the doctor for his weekly injections, even at twenty-seven, because he didn’t want to risk the phantom thumbs disappearing while pushing a needle into his skin. His friends called him childish and told him to get a grip and Tom laughed them off, then got back to work. They all saw ten fingers, but after those conversations, Tom wrote with eight for the rest of the day.
When the colleagues would walk down the street in the evenings, someone in their group would call out to a woman none of them knew. No one ever did anything about it. Tom would grit his teeth and think about having thumbs. He wanted to apologize but instead tipped the bartendress extra and pretended a little more.
When Tom would get home, he would do everything with eight fingers. He cooked, washed his face, ironed his shirts, and proved he could have a grip on life without thumbs.
One night, Tom felt a weight on the mattress next to him, and pulling the sheet with tangled fingers, he swallowed a name that hurt to hold on his tongue. He sighed and felt his own breath flow back into his face, tinged with the smell of familiar skin.
He woke up frustrated and took the bus frustrated. At the office, Tom wiped the dust off his decorations. The framed law degree, the books, but not the jar. He liked to ignore the jar. The red flesh inside made his thumbs hurt: a too-tight string tied between two missing parts of people.
Hours later, Tom pulled on a sweater and took his lunch break. He scrolled through his phone as he walked and before he could open the door, a man strode through and rammed him with a crack on the forehead.
* * * * *
The two men raise simultaneous palms to their heads, curse, and blink. The receptionist asks if they’re okay.
“Yeah, all good.”
“I’m fine.”
“Sorry, man,” Lola says. He sweeps his hair back across his forehead. “Should’ve watched where I was going.”
“Not a problem,” Tom says. He stands there for a moment. Lola feels to him like how his thumbs feel, like he’s missing. It’s like there’s a void instead of a grown man in front of him.
Lola can’t help staring at Tom. He wouldn’t say that he’d followed his heart to this job — not after avoiding it like a bad sandwich — but he thinks he followed his heart right to collision.
“Are you applying?” Tom asks, stalling.
“Oh. Uh, yeah. Thinking about it.”
Of course, neither of them think of the other by name. The men are strangers now, even if, in a different time, they would dance for hours in the dark and pretend to be whole. But that’s how things go around here, when one has a missing chunk of heart and the other has eight fingers.
And then they run into each other again at the diner where they both buy overpriced sandwiches. And then Lola’s coat curves into the alcove in his chest, and Tom’s fries float in the air when he eats, and both see each other from across the room.
No one else notices.