Wait a second while I go cut off my hand now
“Oh, I shouldn’t have done that,” she said.
Becky.
I just met her today while taking paparazzi photos of Natasha in a secret room of the Library. We turned many corners in order to get to this secret enclave that was full of hoary senior folk hunched over their desks typing at their computers.
One of them talked about her son’s MTV internship. Cool. Maybe this group won’t be so awkward.
Twenty minutes later Becky comes over and I introduce myself by holding out my hand. HimynameisKlarikait’snicetomeetyouandhereismyhand.
I don’t even know why I offer my hand; I hate shaking hands.
One. I have sweaty hands. I’m doing you a favor by refusing.
But I thrust my hand in her face and she doesn’t hesitate.
“Oh, I shouldn’t have done that,” she said. “I’m sick.”
COME AGAIN?
“Oh, that’s okay, I don’t care.” CLEARLY LYING.
Staring at my shoes trying to ignore my diseased right hand that has now touched my phone, my keys, my door, my steering wheel, my camera.
New nail color every week and coffee every day.

