Just a very short bit of whimsy.
I watched her forefinger creep towards her teeth as my feet tapped a tattoo on the floor. With her opposite hand, she batted the finger off her shoulder. It fell under the lunar gravity, taking one and a quarter lazy seconds and twice as many rotations to reach the the carpet as it spun. She kept on reading her fashion magazine, holding it in three remaining fingers and a thumb.
“Does this happen often?” I asked.
“What? Oh, that.” She closed her eyes and shook her head slowly. “It used to pop off almost every day, but now only once every few weeks.”
“Is it accompanied by any other … regular events?”
“You pig.”
I considered that for a moment. “Does that mean yes or no?”
She said something under her breath. When I asked her to repeat that, she said, “It means no.” I was certain that wasn’t what she had muttered. But if she didn’t want to tell me, I didn’t want to know.
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