[Two men sit in overstuffed leather chairs. They’ve both inched their seats away from the fire at the height of its intensity, and now most of the warmth they feel is an effect of the drink in their glasses. One of them speaks. His tie visible beneath his sweater. Silk under cashmere. He has the habit of twisting his index finger in the air while thinking, like an insect’s antennae.]
I haven’t told you about the source of my power.
That’s a hard sentence to just come out with. You wouldn’t believe how long it took me to get jazzed up enough to say it. This whole time you were talking about your interest in contemplative prayer, and your unhealthy relationship with Tylenol PM—it’s not that I wasn’t listening. But I wasn’t fully engaged. I had my own thing I wanted to talk about, something I had stowed in my back pocket, but which was barely contained there. Like a coffee card with all ten punches.
It’s C.S. Lewis’s finger. Or thumb. The one on his right hand. It’s his famous thumb. I have it in my desk drawer at work. You have your spare bottle of Evan Williams and a Gaelic St. Patrick’s Breastplate copied out in Sharpie. I have C.S. Lewis’s thumb.
A Fruit Salad of Harm 