Colony by Sean Regan
 (3 ratings)
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SUMMARY: For the January flash fiction contest, theme is "choice"
The fingers were indistinguishable from each other, except for the thumb, which made half-circles in the wider movement of the hand. Along the length of the right leg, starting from knee, slowly the hand and fingers moved, to the thigh, the hip, and then the curve from hip to ribs. There the hand stopped.
"Here, right here," he said, brushing his fingers lightly back and forth, like he was polishing something. "This section, it's curved like a graph from algebra or something. It's like an equation."
"You don't know math," I said.
"I went to school. I know my stuff."
"What equation is it then?"
His fingers fanned out along the curve. Math by touch. "It's like y equals x cubed, or a variation on that," he said. "You think I'm right?"
I shrugged. "It doesn't matter."
"Is that my spot?"
I thought for a moment that this might be important for him, but there must be truth, and the truth was it belonged to a man named Thomas. But I couldn't tell him that, when we had sex, Thomas would place his hands on both of those curves, those equations that progressed from hip to ribs, and when finished, he laughed, and the skin of those curves would be red from the pressure of his holding.
"Someone else has that?" he asked.
"Yeah."
"Really?" I expect him to move his hand elsewhere, but he doesn't, and resumes his brand of polishing. "Who was it?"
"A guy named Thomas. A while ago. Three years, four, something like that. Didn't last too long."
"What happened?"
"We just got bored with each other," I said, and didn't add that the boredom didn't happen in the bedroom. Boredom, bedroom, anagrams. "Emotionally, he was a 20-year-old, and that wasn't super."
"And how old am I, emotionally?"
"You're past drinking age," I said. "I'd have to check your ID."
"So I'm relatively mature. That's good."
"It is," I said, and it was the truth. "You're actually a ways ahead of him."
"You know it, baby. So he's got that part of you. Can I have your armpit?"
"My armpits?"
"Not both of them, just the left one, because you're right-handed and I don't want the right armpit."
"You couldn't handle my armpits."
"Of course I could. They're lovely, I like them a lot," he said.
He pulled my left arm from my body and extended it, an unfolding, till it reached its full length, the fingers drifting up and over the bed's edge, drifting into the air. He ran his thumb and index finger in a pincer over the armpit, tracing the lines of the muscles, the tissue.
"What's not to like about it?" he asked.
"I didn't say it wasn't worth liking, did I?"
He looked up at me, an eyebrow raised. "No you didn't. Anyway, can I have your left armpit, or is that taken?"
A smile, a wonder, and then, "Sure, you can have it. It's not my best feature."
"Of course, and it's not the one I like best," he said. "But it's the one I want."
"But it's not the one you wanted. It was your second choice, the second," I said, without regret, because I knew this fact meant everything and would mean everything to him, no matter what he said otherwise.
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