THE SIXTH FINGER

She had three more days and nights. At least that’s how much she thought. Then it would disappear. It had already started to weaken. Το get smaller. Lose its power. The result wasn’t surely what she and her clients expected on her last orders. That hat didn’t come out with the humor she wanted, that apron didn’t have that dose of self-esteem she had promised and that coat definitely lacked the patience she wanted to give. She would take the orders on specific days and hours of the week. Every Tuesday and Thursday afternoon. Her fame had surpassed city limits and even the more remote houses of the country. People would often be too many to fit in her yard and would kindly leave only to come again next week. In total respect and kindness towards her. The secret was in her sixth finger. A tiny little finger in her left hand next to her small one. She always wore a thimble. She hadn’t decided whether she hid it from the curious glances in that way or emphasized it. She now felt it naked without it. Even in her sleep she would still wear it. Everyone knew about that finger. That is why they would come to her. For the contact. She touched them as she measured them and she could sense what they missed. Why they were awkward, nervous, gloomy or even unhappy. For instance, she had put some caresses in the stitch of the scarf she was to deliver tonight. Her finger had felt that the female body in front of her had been deprived of all caresses. She chose a fine thin fabric with an enormous peacock it the centre. That’s where she chose to hide two invisible tireless hands caressing her neck and hair depending on how she wore it.

Or she would find a way to put three more clock rounds in the lapel of that man's jacket who was always short of time and couldn’t be with the ones he loved the most. 

It wasn’t always there. When she was a kid her aunts praised her fine fingers and taught her to knit and embroider. Such a shame for them to be wasted. She also learned the fabrics and the cloths. She bought her first sewing machine as she grew older and she spent a lot of nights over repairs. The neighbors brought her clothes for a stitch or a hem and she learned the fabrics secrets. She started to have her first orders for dresses, scarves, men’s shirts and vests. She would leave at dawn to go to the market to choose fabrics and threads. She worked in a consistent and detailed way. She loved every order and they all spoke very highly of her work. Everyone had something positive to say for that lonely young woman.

An afternoon a small protuberance appeared on the edge of her hand, like a small hill. I must have hurt it somewhere, she thought but she felt no pain. Days passed and the small hill was becoming a small mountain. Rough, sharp and hostile. Fear and repulsion gradually became acceptance. She couldn’t understand why then and not earlier. Genetic disorder? Miracle of nature? Punishment perhaps? Whatever it was she accepted it. It repaid the warm greeting as if it had a personality of its own. It gave her clarity, an insight as to other people. She could feel what they wanted, what they missed and what held them from being truly happy.

She tried to offer them all these in the best way. Aware of all fabrics, she could hide in them all those human ingredients but people knew that these gifts wouldn’t last forever. A scarf full of caresses would eventually ravel and its owner would have to learn to live without it by then. They would have changed their lives towards the path of happiness. Some people would do it with difficulty, others in disbelief, insecurity, anger but all in great gratitude.

She had to hurry up. Lately she felt it was losing its power. The small sixth finger was becoming a small hill again, ready to be sucked up by skin. She had to hurry up and finish her orders. She had to show consequence to all those people visiting her from far away. She estimated three days and three nights or at least she thought so.