The man with missing fingers needed to put his bags down in the hallway in order to get the keys into the lock and open the door. The bottles clinked as they hit the wood. It was something of an effort to put the key in and out of the locks and turn the tumbler. Even after all these years, it was still an effort.
He made his way into the kitchen and put the bottles and the groceries in the refrigerator. Looking into it, he lost all desire to eat, as he knew nothing would satisfy him. Instead, he poured himself a cup of coffee and reheated it in the microwave. "Black," he said to himself. "I'll take it black." When the bell rang announcing to the empty apartment that his coffee was alive again, he carefully took the mug between his thumb and index finger and walked over the five steps to the kitchen table.
Looking out at the city, he realized he wanted Irish coffee and, stepping over to the cabinet by the sink, pulled out a bottle of whiskey and, after undoing the bottle with the same index and thumb, poured until the mug was up to the brim. He screwed the top back on and placed the bottle on the counter, within reach.
The first taste was like a tonic. Immediately his shoulders relaxed. And he stared out the window. The traffic outside was moving well for a Sunday night. At his floor, the air was cool and the sunset, or what he could make of it, looked beautiful. He pulled an ashtray close to him and took out his cigarettes and lighter from his shirt pocket. It felt good, the whiskey and the coffee and the cigarettes. The cool breeze that came through the open windows in the dusk, that felt good too.
Like gravity upon the tides, his mind went to his daughters. Two of them. To him the most beautiful creatures that were upon the earth. He was their father. It was his right to state such truths. But he knew that he was not altogether lying. The amount of boys that were around the house visiting them even from a young age was rather astonishing. They really were beautiful and smart. He was proud of that. He made sure that their grades were good. He knew what beauty alone could bring without another column of self worth supporting the spirit. And he did not want that for them, did not want them to be missing that part of themselves on account of him.
He lit another cigarette and had another long drink of coffee. He closed his eyes. He could see his youngest daughter, Sarah, laughing and dancing in the shallow pool of water. It was June, early June, and the temperature was in the upper 90's. Neither he nor their mother, nor any of their friends could remember a day so early in June that was so hot. They were all out back, the girls splashing each other in the inflatable pool. The tableau struck him as something out of a dream. There was their mother, beautiful in her summer dress and long hair and sunglasses, and there were his two daughters in bathing suits, the three of them laughing. He had witnessed this silently from behind the back door. Having just put in the screen, he could hear everything perfectly. They were happy then, joyous, even. He stood there watching them for what seemed like forever. No man wants to interrupt a dream coming true before his eyes.
When he finally did open the door, the two girls, his two daughters, came running towards him screaming, "Daddy! Daddy!" He said nothing but smiled and picked both of them up. He remembered all the fingers of his left and right hands pulling them to him. And their skin, so new and soft, entrusted to his touch. He could feel their small arms around his neck like koala bears and their machine gun fire words filling a deep part of him that he never knew existed until their presence. And in that moment he loved everything. He loved their mother, he loved them, and he even loved his clumsy life and was so grateful that he had been allowed to stumble into such beauty.
He was jolted from his memory by a sharp pain in his pinky. Out of reflex, his left hand shot to its side waving it up and down trying to uncramp the muscle. The cigarette, long since burnt to the short filter, shot across the kitchen floor, the ashes flying everywhere. He swore out loud, both at the fact that he had just made a mess on his newly cleaned floor and also at the reminder that he did not have a pinky on his left hand. (Nor his right for that matter.) Still, his finger that was not there ached. It was phantom pain. Nothing could explain it and there was no cure.
So he waited it out. He placed his head on the table and grit his teeth. His right hand reached out for his left to massage it, but it arrived to find too few fingers to be of help for a finger that did not exist. Placing both hands on the table on either side of his head, he could feel all ten of his fingers gripping themselves into fists. Opening and closing and aching with each movement.
When he opened his eyes all he saw was the empty coffee mug and peering a bit lower, his left hand which had no pinky or ring finger on it. Slowly, as if not wanting to believe that he had awaken from a dream where he had all he desired back, he pulled his head up from the table and saw his right hand, also missing fingers. And he looked out of the window to see that night had finally blanketed the city, the cool air filling the kitchen and causing the vividness of his dream to drift farther and farther away.
He brought the whiskey bottle up to his lap and poured into the mug. The bottle was empty. He placed it back on the floor and, with some effort, tore the filter off of one of his cigarettes and lit it. The nicotene kick felt good, though no real substitute for whiskey.
"Wasn't there more in the cabinet?" he thought. But the cabinet, even the idea of moving from his chair, seemed impossible.
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