I tug at my flesh-colored sock and unhook the latch to rearrange my leg. My flushed palms steam the cold metal. Although I’ve put on the prosthetic hundreds of times before, I now fumble with its weight and awkward shape. I recognize how foreign it must look to them; even after three years, it still looks foreign to me.
Winner of The Letter Review Prize for Short Fiction
Holding His Hand
I like holding his hand. His broad fingers are alive and warm. Sometimes, when my fingers are spaced between his, he brings up our joint fist to kiss my knuckles, and we look like we are praying together.
We walk down a steep hill, joined in this way. His feet slap the sidewalk while I limp slightly. I’ve been limping for a few years now, and I’m almost used to it—as used to it as I’ll ever be. He walks a little slower than he usually would with me, but he doesn’t seem to mind. In fact, it seems he’s enjoying the stroll, grinning at me as he points out a bakery that sells cinnamon rolls the size of his head.
We plan to meet some of his friends for breakfast. He says they’re excited to meet me.
We are the first ones to arrive. The restaurant is full of chatter, of metal utensils on ceramic and teeth. The undercurrent of smacking lips vibrates through the air.
We are told to wait until all of our party has arrived. He grabs a menu to leaf through, and we find a spot to stand in the sun on the sidewalk.
He turns over the laminated menu with one hand, his other still warms mine against the morning chill. He’s thinking about ordering strawberry crepes, and I’m thinking Eggs Benedict.
I see a neon runner sidestep a woman pushing a walker down the hill. A young family leaves a low, wooden bench next to the restaurant. He says he wants to sit down. I know he’s doing it for me, and I’m grateful. He walks ahead of me, and I follow, thinking how the back of his head is still cowlicked from the pillow we shared. He’s starting to turn around to look at me, but before his eyes meet mine, I feel like I’ve been punched in the lungs—all of the air is shoved out. I fall to the ground. The asphalt is sharp on my palm and cheek.
The neon runner that collided with me crouches down, her red face dripping sweat inches from mine. By the movement of her mouth, I can tell she’s apologizing, but adrenaline mutes her.
He is beside me, his face contorted in worry. I sit up and take inventory. There’s no rushing pain, no flooding wave of searing energy, no ghoulish sensation that I’ve felt in the past when something went really wrong. There’s none of that. But still, I look around as I lift a hand to my stinging cheek.
Sounds return. He asks me if I’m okay, if anything is broken or bruised or injured. It’s not. The runner says something about changing a song on her phone as she too surveys the scene. She stops speaking when she looks down at my leg.
My prosthetic is dislodged and is twisted into an unnatural position below my knee.
A semi-circle forms around us; the hushed onlooker guilt is so palpable I want to dissolve. I tug at my flesh-colored sock and unhook the latch to rearrange my leg. My flushed palms steam the cold metal. Although I’ve put on the prosthetic hundreds of times before, I now fumble with its weight and awkward shape. I recognize how foreign it must look to them; even after three years, it still looks foreign to me.
With a tug, I hear the pin click and lock into place. My legs look nearly identical again, under my jeans and matching shoes. The runner whispers more apologies. I ignore her.
He’s shaken as he fumbles a hand under my armpit to help me up. He’s pushing hair away from his brow, unsure of how to touch me now. I avoid his eyes. I don’t want to find pity in them. I wish he would stop asking if I’m okay.
I hear his name called. His friends are here. Even from afar I can tell they purposefully keep their eyes waist up. I notice a flicker of relief when he sees them and my heart sinks. The awkwardness of the encounter is nearly unbearable for him. I wish he was more confident in his place beside me.
He raises one hand to wave to them and grabs mine in his other, and our clasp feels a little different now. His hand is warm, full of life and promise, but there’s a little less certainty in the connection. My hand feels exposed and tender with asphalt burn, and it shakes, like it’s holding back tears.
He turns to me, and, with a smile that has a little more heaviness in it than it did a few minutes ago, he asks me if I’m ready.
I nod, and we walk towards his friends. I feel eyes on my limp, and I swallow a pang of sadness away as I rearrange my face into a smile. But I do smile, for him, for them. Because I like holding his hand.
Casey Shapack was born and raised in the San Francisco Bay Area, and now lives in North Carolina with her husband and two young sons. Her work has appeared in Feminine Collective.