Phantom Hands

Water dripped from the faucet. It dispensed as if in a rush and then, like transparent globules of crystal, it cascaded down the sink. Foamy white strands of soap then gathered behind it. Whiteness coated the marble sink. Arker Strait rinsed and found a towel. Then, his hands disappeared.

He knew it could happen and it did. He actually hoped for it. He managed to wash his hands so much that he had made them disappear. Throughout the day, he managed to navigate his house and fix himself breakfast. With a bowl of cereal, he found himself to be capable of pouring the flakes and topping them with milk.

“Hey, Simon. Play public radio,” he called for the digital assistant. He also read the news. Next, his wife Mila came downstairs.

“Morning, hon. No hands, finally?” she said, looking at the wrists with phantom hands.

“It happened. You know it’s just as well. My mother always said that Jesus could wash away sins, but he always had a tough time at washing away bacteria, viruses, and fungi. An ‘everlasting savior’ who couldn’t stop germs. I think I washed one too many times. No biggie.”

“No biggie,” Mila shrugged. “Except, you will join the millions of people all over the globe who have this same condition. How will you respond to the criticism of people who have washed their hands too much?”

“I’ll say it’s worth it. I don’t have to worry about anyone ever chastising me. It’s great. I don’t even miss them.”

Mila smiled. “Once you wash away your hands, there can only be transplants.”

“I want no such things. I am enjoying not having hands. I’ll never have to put my palms together and pray. That’s excellent.”

“I know you’ll live through this with grace, nevertheless,” Mila observed.