It was early Sunday morning, and I had been sitting in a local coffee shop reading the newspaper when Crystal came in. In the three years I had known her, we had become close friends, so I eagerly invited her to sit an chat.
Eventually, however, the conversation turned to the subject she had avoided for all three years of our friendship. "There's something I've been wondering..."
I knew what this was about, and simply got to the point. "The gloves, right?"
Crystal's eyes widened, then narrowed. "Yeah. The gloves."
"Let's just say that they're necessary."
"'Necessary?' Is that why you wear them all the time, even during the summer? Even when I saw you swimming at the lake a few weeks ago, even then you were wearing the gloves despite the record-breaking heat wave baking the entire state."
I finished the last of my latte and set the cup aside. "Trust me, it is best that I wear the gloves all the time. They only come off long enough for me to shower or wash the dishes, or change to another pair of gloves."
"Admittedly, they're somewhat stylish – you know how much I like black leather. But still, it's... it's..."
"'Strange?' 'Peculiar?' 'Different?' I've heard all those words before – and quite a few others – to describe it. I'm used to it." I shrugged. "The gloves are very much a part of me, as does what they conceal."
"So what do the gloves conceal?" she challenged. "Are your hands disfigured? Are you suffering from some sort of disease?"
"They're definitely not disfigured," I assured my friend, "but I'm not sure if 'disease' is an appropriate word..."
Crystal leaned back in her chair, frustrated. She did not care much for mysteries, which was partly why she was such a good police detective: She would stay on a case until it was solved, leaving no molecule uninvestigated. Since she had joined the police department, the percentage of unresolved cases had dropped nearly in half.
That also meant, however, that now that Crystal had turned her attention to my always-gloved hands, I was essentially forced to show her why my hands were always covered with black leather.
"I'm more than willing to show you," I acknowledged, "but this is definitely not the right place to do that. We definitely need someplace private." She seemed a little skeptical, but I was not surprised – in her position, I would be skeptical as well. "Unless you have other plans, why don't you drop by my place sometime this afternoon. Just come on in – you have the key."
Crystal would look after my fish when I was traveling on business, so I had no qualms about her coming and going, and she knew that. "Okay," she finally agreed. "My niece's birthday party should end around 4PM, so I'll be there afterward."
"Sounds good." I smiled, trying to reassure her, but I do not believe that it worked.
*****
Crystal wasted no time when she arrived. "Okay, I'm here. Show me."
Her straightforwardness was not entirely surprising, but I was still taken aback somewhat. Nonetheless, I had her sit at the dining room table, and I stood beside her, purposely taking off the gloves.
I knew that Crystal was deathly afraid of tornadoes. She had grown up in Oklahoma, and twice the family home was severely damaged by tornadoes, and her father had lost his auto repair shop due to yet another tornado. Just the mere mention of the word "tornado" would have her visibly shaking with fear unmistakable in her eyes.
Tornadoes were thus the perfect way to show her why my hands were always covered when I was around other people.
Compared to the rest of my summer-tanned body, my hands were incredibly pale in comparison. I suppose one could say I had the hands of a vampire. My friend gasped aloud at the striking contrast between hands and arms.
"This is what happens when wearing gloves 24/7 for almost one's entire life," I explained.
The look in Crystal's eyes was a mixture of disbelief and pity. She clearly had not considered how a prolonged lack of sunlight would affect the hands – none of the few people who had seen my hands had ever considered it beforehand.
