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I once had minor surgery on my right hand. They gave me four needles to deaden it. I sat in the waiting room as the drugs took hold. My right hand was viscerally vanishing. I touched it with my left hand fingertips. I was startled. This was what my hand felt like to somebody else. I could feel the texture of my own skin, but I couldn’t feel the caress of my own fingers.
I have smooth hands. They are calloused in odd places—a lifetime gripping pens while taking notes. I have always taken notes. I’m compelled to.
I can see my women like my hands. They feel strong but gentle, protective and warm. My hand was steadily warm. It’s a nice thing to know, but I want more. I’m obsessed with the idea of knowing. I want to know what lovers see. Why do they never let me go?
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Metanarrative