Wincing I glanced down. It hadn’t taken much to make that small blister appear in the hollow of my palm, that most tender of places on one’s hand. It’s my writing hand where a thin flap of skin now folded back.
Suddenly I remembered a dinner party where the hostess brightly asked the man across the table from me, “How long have you been hunting for a job?” I saw him wince momentarily, then quickly attempt to cover it with a smile. He made a fumbling reply then someone quickly changed the topic.
But there is another way.