his_greening_hand Vancroupe When Robert McAffrey woke up on a cold Thursday morning in the flailing grip of summer, he knew something was not quite right. The sun shone through the two windows of his apartment, rays of light needling Robert’s eyes and making him squint; on sunny mornings like this, Robert would spend the good part of half an hour lurching about his apartment, his vision reduced to a horizontal closet slat. Because he had been living in the apartment for a goodish time, a long series of circulating autumns and summers and winters that Robert didn’t even want to think about, these morning reveries were without incident. He never tripped, stumbled or fell. He didn’t yawn, mumble or stretch. He didn’t even hum; he merely… lurched. And on this cold Thursday morning, lurching along to brew his morning coffee, Robert McAffrey was again struck by that feeling that something was quite wrong, that inkling of impending events. But he was damned if he knew what they were. “Something esoteric is about to happen”, he said to the empty apartment, and smiled. He congratulated himself on his use of the word ‘esoteric’ and wished, for a moment, that there was somebody else who could have heard. Somebody who could have smiled and patted him on the back, or somebody who could have laughed and brushed their hands through his hair, whispering into his ear, “Oh Robert! Oh my Robert, what a smart man you are!” But there was no one and Robert McAffrey rewarded himself by spooning three lumps of sugar into his coffee instead of two. When he had finished with his daily dose of caffeine, carefully sipping the savory liquid to make it last, he put the cup in the sink and prepared himself for work. It was in the bathroom, staring into his mirrored face all scalloped with shaving cream, his right hand with his prized Gillette razor descending to his cheek, that Robert finally realized what was wrong, what had changed. His hand, wrapped around the handle of the razor, was a beautiful, luminescent, partially transparent green. He could see his veins, which were now a deeper shade of green, one that reminded him of the evergreens along Kerouac pass, beating with a steady rhythm just below his skin. He could see the white silhouette of his bones, the ridged skeleton that gave form to his flesh. But Robert thought the bones looked lumpy and gelatinized. They looked like they were melting. Robert quickly finished his morning rituals and hurried to his bedroom for his trousers, shirt and tie. When he had dressed, tucking in his shirt with his left hand, he put on socks, shoes, coat. He checked himself briefly in the mirror, then ran out the door, locking it behind him. Unlocked the door, came back in. Rummaged through his closet for a pair of gloves. Slipped them on, then hurried out the door again. It was bad manners to run through the city with a green hand: what would people think? 041026 what's it to you? who go blather from