A. wasn’t one to mince her words. Fierce, quick-tempered, loyal to the bone — the sort who once played handball, and could silence a room with a single look. These days, she stuck to peppermint tea and the occasional passive-aggressive text, often punctuated with “...” and a well-placed fine then.
Her husband, V., was the quiet sort. Kind, in that maddeningly detached way. Spoke in half-sentences, disappeared into the shed when emotions flared, and claimed he was “thinking” whenever things got awkward — which, frankly, was often.
Then one morning, A. woke up and noticed her right index finger had vanished.
Not broken. Not bandaged. Just... gone. Like it had got fed up and walked off in the night.
— Have you seen my finger? — she asked, holding up her hand as if she'd misplaced her keys.
— Have you checked the bedside table? — V. said, without even looking up from the crossword.
— Oh yes, darling, it’s probably nestled next to my dignity and your listening skills.
She glared. He blinked. Back to business as usual.
The days ticked by. She managed — stirred tea with her pinky, tapped out angry messages with her thumb, gestured like an arthritic conductor. But something in her simmered.
Because she’d been building up to something. Something final.
You know the sort — the big conversation. The “we need to talk”, the emotional hand grenade with the pin already halfway out. She had the whole thing rehearsed. Words sharp as cutlery. Tone set to devastating but controlled.
And when the moment came — she raised her hand, ready to metaphorically pull the trigger...
Nothing.
No finger.
No bang.
Just her, stood there with a half-formed point and a face full of steam.
V. looked up, calm as anything, and said:
— I think I saw your finger near the mirror. Might’ve slipped off while you were rehearsing all those dramatic pauses.
She didn’t know whether to laugh or hit him with a cushion.
Since then, she’s kept the finger in her coat pocket — not for pointing, but just to remind herself: sometimes, not saying it is the louder choice.
And V.?
Well, he’s started coming back inside when there’s shouting. Even makes the tea now — once in a while, unasked.
