So I remember that certain sixth grade school in Santiago, where it was dictated that all children complete their written assignments strictly in fountain pen. Insert cartridge. Tap the tip long enough to make it wet. Get to work. Always what was assigned, rote. Always what was demanded, always cursive. And my born, raised and righteous left hand always left smudges. It was bad enough that I wanted to go my own way when it came to letters, but the page made me reckon with my one-in-ten handicap. Blots and smears, streaks, evidence all over my fingers, wrists, occasional drips sliding down along my arm.

Well, yes, the kids would tell me. That’s what you get for being a lefty.

So I remember that I learned to use my hand in ways to game what was expected. Started with an adjustment of the angle. Wrist positioned to come in from above. Reassigned my fingers along length, turned middle an ring fingers into dominants. Curved wrist to to ensure my lower palm would rest just above previous pen strokes, where they were certain to be put to better use. Got to where I could even turn the page sideways, to the point where I could even go frantic and fast, leaving a perfect trail, for as long as was necessary, long as it was always measured, far and wide.

And so I remember years later, a situation so far fetched, that once-was-me couldn’t even comprehend how it had come to such perfection, stationed on the steps of a brownstone stoop. Well past my prime, locked in a kiss that licked, went far as wide, hands along her back, face, hair, arms, legs. Sliding down between jean shorts and undulating hips, button coming loose with an audible snap, zipper down the trail, clothes sliding down past bent knees, along with what was under, so suddenly that middle and ring went sliding in with a hot-breath response against my lip, free hand running up along curvatures, wrapped around the back of her neck, wrist arched in a way that brought us closer, kissing against cries, left limb going rhythmic, right hand pulling her hair, tilting back, watching with eyes inches from mine, taking a sideways page from everything that came before, nails in my back, teeth rewriting my neckline, out in the open world and under the clouds, palm pressed, as my fingers brought the flood, smudged, wet dripping along my arm, making a perfect mess of my scrawled intentions, page without margins or wide ruled lines, just drenched and glistening, listening to her laughter echo over the skyline, and to think

there was a time they thought they were teaching me something about writing.

And yes, I told her, smiling against her cheek, pulling out and taking a taste of for myself.

Yes.

I am a lefty.

###

in print:

Amazon.com

or for fucking free in digital

Smashwords.com

so long and thanks for all the pish.