Digits

1

Opening the door rang a beautiful bell. Clare stepped across the threshold: shoulders hunched: nervous. Her eyes were hazel: her cheekbones high. Her mess of chestnut hair was a ruffled waterfall. She flicked it back and for a moment anyone who saw her was stunned.

The girl stepped over to her and led her to a seat: “Hello, I’m Dawn. Manicure?”

Clare did not know if she had spoken or merely nodded. Dawn seated Clare then sat across from her.

“So… are you going to let me see your hands?”

Dawn had beautiful eyes: deep green, illuminated by golden filigreed tattoos that caressed her brows and cheek bones. Clare placed her hands on the table.

“Wow!”

“I know.” Clare’s right hand had an additional middle finger.

“Eleven. Polydactylism. I’m rare.” Clare blushed.

“I’ve never seen that before.” Dawn’s tone was hushed: reverential. She took the hand, caressed it, lightly gliding her fingers across each of the digits. Clare bit her lip. Then the girl’s professionalism took hold; she appraised each nail, each bed, each cuticle: slowly, carefully.

“I’ve seen you,” Dawn murmured, apparently lost in her appraisal. “Walking by the shop.” She looked into Clare’s eyes. “Over and over.”

Clare nodded, embarrassed. Dawn smiled, still holding Clare’s hands.

“What are you after?” Dawn asked.

“A manicure. Some art. Your phone number.” Clare was amazed at her courage.

Dawn laughed. “Alright,” she said, getting to work.

After, Clare admired her nails without shame, enjoying the artistry of Dawn’s name and number unfurling across each nail.

2

Clare sat in the bay window of her apartment, her feet drawn under her bum, a glass of red wine in her hand, the liquid swirling round and round. Outside, the leaves of the oak trees fluttered up and down in the wind, flashing and flecking like St. Elmo’s fire. The roasted sienna tones of dusk were passing. In the background Portishead’s “Glory Box” murmured from the vinyl, filling the room and her senses with the same buzz the Merlot was giving the blood in her veins.

The dining table was cluttered with dishes and the meal’s remaining morsels.

The sound of a flush burbled through the flat, hushed and then loud as the bathroom door opened.

Dawn walked into the darkened room, smiling at Clare’s song choice. She moved to the player and watched the vinyl guide the needle through its undulating narrative. She turned to say something and in the half-light Clare’s mouth found Dawn’s; her fingers slid up the back of Dawn’s neck and into the weft of her tight golden curls; they drifted into one another, lost in warmth and passion and thrill, lingering together upon the gentle heat of the wine.

Outside the tree flickered like a candle as it dies, the sound of the sighing wind coursed across the single panes of the windows and the music drifted down into the pleasant silence of a stormy September evening.

3

In the darkness of her bedroom, Clare listened to Dawn’s breathing. She slid her head down into the space between her lover’s breasts and listened to the beat of her heart. The gentle percussion murmured through Clare’s ear and into her imagination. She winced at the habits of her mind, at the foolish eagerness of her overzealous romanticism. Her intensity was her creature, something she had known too long and which she abhorred. She feared thoughts of future happiness: what if they should make themselves known too soon and overwhelm their own possibilities?

Dawn’s finger’s drifted down and stroked Clare’s hair back from her face. Clare looked up at Dawn. They smiled, half asleep, half exhausted, and in spite of her delight, Clare wondered if they would ever be as happy again as they were in that brief moment in the dark.