The Thief of Fists II

Just last night, he – the Thief of Fists – was lurking in the pubs: O, how many fists there were poised, ready to rise and lay a punch? Then found themselves unfurled, with a finger pointing at a pint; with the lips mouthing off, about buying a round.

The bath, too. Where was she, the little whore, perched on the seat of the loo, bent over and groping (his anarchy of pleasure, her regime of pleasure, trading), splashed, nude, there with her train-track arms, there with her fisted little life and feminine charms?

Instead: light filtered through the fingers, slotted among the pages of a book. Ticklish when turning, like slow feathers, they fluttered in the steam. “Come fight with me,” I said “Or go fuck with me. Just wake from this civilized dream.”

Nothing. “And who has thieved your fists,” I ask him now. “Who?” And stupid man, he doesn’t know. Doesn’t know why the Fist falls open, and the fingertips type. “But,” he says, “at least they are free to.”