It was late afternoon when she returned to her apartment. She kicked off her stilettos and left them in the basket by the door with all of the other high heels she had worn that week. She walked over to the mini bar and poured herself a drink. As she did so, the comment from the man at the bar earlier that day resounded in her head: You’re beautiful, you know. Simply beautiful. Beautiful. Caroline laughed to herself. Beautiful was not what she was. Beautiful was not someone who was missing their right hand. How could anyone like her be ‘simply beautiful’? She couldn’t. Caroline poured herself another drink and sat down on the couch. The little goldfish that swam around in the bowl on the table next to her seemed to scold her for drinking so much. Either that, or the constant opening and closing of his mouth only urged her to drink more; he never could make up his mind. “Oh, give it up, Steve.” She was annoyed with her fish. “You know that drinking’s in my blood, passed down from my dear old dad. Heck, even my last name is a drink.” Besides, she thought, it’s not my drinking that stopped me from being a writer. It’s this darn hand, or lack of. Caroline looked down to where her hand should be and saw only the end of her sleeve. Fourteen years. That’s how long it’s been since I lost my hand; and yet, it still feels like it was today. Caroline jumped up from the couch as she felt the tears begin to build up in her eyes. The mini bar now looked twice as welcoming. She poured herself another glass, and brought the bottle to the couch as she sat back down. Leaning over, she clinked her glass against the home of her goldfish. “Cheers,” she said, emptying her glass in one swig.
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