He could not remember the last time his hands were not bloody, were not scarred. Now every callous has a name. Swollen were his fingers. Always. He could not stand to look anymore. The blue rubber gauntlet helped him to forget. A man like him. A man like he was. Better almost to lose his eyes. Sure, it was mostly body work. Back and legs and arms. But the hands were the generals and the army both. Now look what they’ve become. The whole outfit ruined. You can’t cover your shame with a glove. To hell with it, he thought. Let it all burn down to ashes. Let it become the lime and the dust. He smoked his cigarette down to the filter and dropped the glove at the curb. Then he ground the butt with the toe of his boot. He hopped on the back of the truck. He grabbed the bar of the door handle. He felt the cold steel against his naked palm.
Numina 