This piece is simply one point of view of the handicap this woman has. I do not pretend to know what it would feel like, since nor I, nor someone I know have experienced such disability. I would appreciate to have feedback for this one! :)
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
I've always disliked first encounters. The nervous smiles people wear on their pretty faces around me is disconcerting. They try and keep their looks glued anywhere else but at me, but their glue - the will not to look at my absence of arms - wears off, thus their curious nature makes them want to explore my condition. I don't mind if they do want to know if I was born with a defect, but they can at least drop the unnecessary "don't look there, she may be offended" sort of politeness.
Thankfully, I never had to do my own cooking. The moment I realized that, I knew I wanted to become a food critic, for food is my greatest contentment. I pursued my dreams, and earned my reputation, acclaimed as I am around the world.
Sometimes, simple people engage into a conversation with me, and slowly become captivated in my words, realizing how much of a rich vocabulary mine appears to be compared to their "likes" and "you knows". My explanation would be the quantity of books I'd read when I was younger. You may ask yourself how I would manage to turn the pages. My mother once picked up our copy of Moby Dick, and surprised as she was, found teeth marks. At first, she blamed the mice, convinced they had suddenly acquired some great intelligence, but then realized it was only me, eager to learn the perks of the world, as I was the only child in the house.
There had been, one night, a seemingly pleasant gentleman that had approached me with built up confidence. With a pat on my shoulder, from his grinning lips popped a question I had never expected ; who keeps the dust off my books? To this day, that said gentleman dusts off my set of novels, spreads the sheets on our shared bed, cooks accodring to my advice and hugs me while I stir in my sleep. To tease me, from time to time, he plants wet kisses on my cheek, and I have to brush them away awkwardly with my shoulder.
I've always wanted someone to write my story. Maybe it will even be out there, one day.
I may dislike first encounters, but perhaps they add a touch of irony to my life.
