My right hand is extroverted and an asshole. My left is introverted and bitter. One gets the entire dick and the other is tight of heart over lack of dick. They are both female. This is important to remember. I draw lips on them, a full pair for my right and straw lips for my left.
My right hand, through unfiltered cigarette smoke, describes her daily routine quantified by hair follicles and over the counter make-up solutions. She is in lost breath after sentences, some not long at all, and coughs as punctuation or reflex. When being particularly honest she sniffles as if rumination was a rhinovirus.
My left hand silently watches the right, her thumb muscles tense with contempt. She considers what cosmetic work the right hand has had and derision curls the index. In just a few minutes the flex in the wrist loosens and limps until the hand languishes with knee for support. She jerks into a stupor, the eyes I drew ringed by turmoil.