Member-only story
Little Sausage Fingers
These hands had held the world
“Give me those little sausage fingers!” the makeup artist ordered, snatching at the woman’s hand. The human digits took the form of cocktail sausages that had wrinkled and weathered away through the nettles of time. These hands had held the world within their palms, felt its fertile lands, and breathed its precious air.
The woman asking the question was far younger than her client; a forty-two-year age gap separated the two. Armed with vibrant red varnish, she carefully coated one of the lady’s fingernails in short, accurate strokes, not wanting to stain the surrounding skin.
“Are you up to much this weekend, Mrs. Gertrude? I bet you are meeting up with all the old dears down at the bingo hall…”
The elderly woman did not answer; instead, she remained silent and completely still, stubborn and defiant.
“Ahh, that will be lovely. Jim Rosendale is one lucky man. Between us girls, at your age, do you… you know, still get down and dirty?”
The makeup artist’s voice dropped in decibels, morphing into a whisper. The old woman’s eyes did not flicker but merely stared blankly at the artist as if the question were of a ridiculous nature — not to be acknowledged, let alone answered.
