Scrounger: Thirteen
The flushed skin around her throat still glows in his mind. Had they not been in public, he would’ve reached across and graced it with his fingertips. He got his chance after he drove her home. She was too ill to eat, too worried about the virus, and he stopped being afraid. Before she closed the door to her apartment, he reached out, touching the flesh below the nape of her neck. She took his hand in hers and pulled it to her lips. Her eyes watered, and she kissed his fingers. Then red lightning shot through his vision.
Mark looks down. Typing isn’t nearly as difficult as he thought it would be. The missing tips of his middle and index fingers stopped throbbing days ago and have begun to feel numb. Those two fingernails don’t click against the keys like the rest, but at least he can type.
And it’s weird because he saw Sally walk down the sidewalk the other day, and she looked vibrant. Alive. Well.