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Your right hand is the first to go One Sunday afternoon as you’re sitting on the sofa reading the papers, it detaches itself at the wrist and walks on the tips of its thumb and fingers across the rug in the centre of the room It strides up the arm of the leather chair he’s sitting in, pushes its fingers between those of his left hand and curls them down, interlocking your palm with his   He continues working on his laptop You try to call your hand back, mouthing and gesturing so you don’t disturb him It ignores you, clutches him tighter He doesn’t seem to notice   You try everything you can think of to lure it back: cooing, threatening, ignoring It remains interlaced with his hand He continues to type   How are you going to eat? Write? Dress? Can you manage with your left hand? You can’t remember the last time you tried   You imagine him feeding you, wonder if you can convince him to do so You despise yourself for considering it   The following morning, after you’ve negotiated dressing (you acted coy, he helped), eating breakfast (toast, one handed; buttering was a challenge), getting the bus (you tipped the change from your purse onto the driver’s tray; he wasn’t impressed) and getting into your office (a balancing act), you sit at your desk and wish you could call your mother   Sometimes you hear her voice in your head, saying the things you know she’d say to you, advising, guiding, reassuring This time there’s silence   You examine the stump of wrist where your hand used to be It’s sharp, pristine No sign of a struggle, no blood   You teach your third-year students The module is Women in Post-War Britain and today’s seminar is on the 1960s You discuss the pill, the Abortion Act, Soho, the sewing machinists’ strike in Dagenham   One of the young women has a ring finger missing Is that recent? You’ve never noticed before Another, like you, is devoid of a right hand She takes notes competently with her left You wonder what her story is   Afterwards, you attempt to continue with the article you’re