Margaret feels a faint pain growing in her third and fourth fingers on her right hand. She angles her hand and sees recently manicured nails, no obvious signs of injury. Every bit of black glossy nail polish is still there. She angrily presses decline to another spam call as her hand trembles and she grits her teeth, forcing her right hand to stop. By grabbing it, her precious phone slips from her grasp and towards the asphalt. Ringing once more, it hits the ground as she stomps her foot, pain flaring up into her knee. She glares at the unreliable hand she’s forced to use. It trembles again. Veiny blue lines race up her dry stain-covered fingers. They can’t even tie a bow.

A spectre floats by her phone, muttering curses at her stupidity. Margaret tries to flip it off, but her right hand continues to wobble, refusing to move as she wants. Exasperated, she picks up the screen’s shards and chucks it into the trash. A couple of pieces miss as her hand shakes, but Margaret keeps walking. Eight hundred dollars now mixes in with half-finished sodas and forgotten receipts. Her worn-in-petticoat drags through spilled soda. Now she unknowingly mirrors the spectre from earlier. She mutters under her breath and stomps to the subway station. Seeing the ghost reminded her of her childhood, filled with comfort. Yet nothing had changed thirteen years later. Ghosts still ignore her. And her mother, the only person to ever love her, is still dead. It is a ridiculous concept that her emotional stains from her childhood could have caused the nuisance of a painfully shaky hand. It could not be. In response, her hand starts to convulse wildly. She shoves it into her petticoat pocket. 

And now a wrinkly old man with a rosewood cane who was out for coffee reaches out to Margaret, wishing to tell her about the stain on her petticoat. But seeing Margaret’s livid face and spasming arm makes him reconsider. Trying to control her quaking hand, she intently picks at the sleeve’s destroyed hem before glancing over her shoulder with a decisive glare. Margaret practically shouts “What are you looking at? Hm? Am I so disgusting? You won’t be the first to tell me so.” His glance doesn’t waver, only flickering between her face and trembling hand. His pitying look is cut short as he turns the corner towards the blue subway line. Margaret’s hand trembles. 

She can’t even imagine having the luxury of people to care for her considering she doesn’t even have time to care for herself. She is not worthy of others’ time even if they offer it and even if she wants it. And that fact angers her. Beyond the walls of her mind, Margaret subconsciously burns the possibility that she is afraid of disappointing any person that enters her life. Her anger is justified. Her hand quivers. By the end of the day, her hand still wobbles, reminding her that nothing is permanent and she is disgusting.