Thumbsucker

Suck, suck, suck. The salty ridges. A print of his thumb that he knew more through taste and texture than by sight. Staring up at the stove. Mom cooking meat on a pan. She dries her hands on the wash cloth towel and when she’s done he moves in and with quiet glee runs his soaked thumb along the texture of the soap scum grease frozen cloth until he can feel his thumb losing moisture and returns it to the sharp throne of his rear molars. Upstairs, watching TV. Feeling his pulse through the skin in his teeth. Never thinking about this. Just the salt. Until it’s gone. The day is over and the skin is wrinkled. Just the thumb on the right hand. Arm hanging at such a comfortable angle. Visions of a perfect life. Suspended silky fluid, warm. Food arriving through mail tube. Thump thump, thump thump. Mother’s voice, like on speakerphone. Tiny thumb even still, like it grew from the mouth instead of the hand. It made that much sense to him.