Twiddle

She twiddles her thumbs. Right thumb is winning the wrestling match. Usher sings through her speakers. She mostly listens to his older albums. He had soul back then. Now, he has David Guetta. Today’s Thursday, Friday’s shadow. It’s 9PM, time for the elderly and worn youth to sleep. But she can’t.

Her left thumb dodges a jab. It circles around, but the right thumb relentlessly attacks. One feint later, and the left has locked the other thumb in a vice-grip hold. 3,2,1 we have a pin! She thinks about the word hold. How it’s a half step from old. How it can mean grab, or to wait, or to want. Her hands lay flat, nestled together. She’s holding out hope for a handhold. Something to steady her and make her feel safe. She’s holding out hope for a letter from Hogwarts. Holding out hope for a call from an old friend.

She tussles her hair, trying to get out of this daze. A few hairs fall out. Used to shedding. Notices a white hair on her dark pajamas. Quick inhale. Remembers petting a white cat outside of the apartment. The hair is from the cat. It has to be.