The Value of the Text

Growing up, Reneet's brothers had often teased her about having fat fingers. "Fat fingers, fat fingers" they chanted, waggling their many hands in her face like little Shivas in a death dance. Sometimes even her father joined in the taunting, which felt like a foreboding double shame to Reneet: her father would never be able to arrange a good husband for her to marry if he, even he, thought she had ugly hands.

Now, as an adult, Reneet felt hyper-sensitive about her hands. She had outgrown her need for an arranged marriage but she still wore gloves, under the pretense of cold Chicago winters long after the snow had melted. At parties or while out with friends, she hid her hands under the table, under her thighs, away from sight.

That's probably why she liked to text while driving. Freed from their confines, her hands danced over the key pad, nimble as Yakshis clutching the vine. In this embrace, Reneet felt a surge of creativity and power. 35, 40, 45, 50. The speed of the vehicle fueled her sense of power and liberation.

Especially when she texted Mike. He was handsome and blonde, nothing like the dark-eyed Manpreets of her family. No, Mike was different. He understood Reneet's need for freedom. Even though they had only been talking and texting for a few days, he seemed to understand her pleasure in being alone behind the wheel. He was not bound by the traditions of her parents, or the desi complications of her brothers. He was free, and like her hands, knew the value of the text. With her foot on the gas pedal, she texted.

u r sexy, she whispered.

lol, he laughed back.

Her '96 Camry sped west down 35th Street. Her fingers whipped across the keys, the steering wheel merely another function between the space bar and the exclamation point.

lets meet, she implored. But her fingers, which were wider than the IPod's keys, missed their mark and it appeared on his screen as lets nrrt.

what? u must have fat fingers today. lol

Reneet never saw the light rail train when the Camry slammed into it. Blasting into her present, Shiva loomed before her, dancing death. His faces were the faces of her brothers and her father. His laugh were their taunts. In that split second Reneet knew that her fingers danced a life that was her destruction.

She died on impact, her chest crushed against the steering column. Mike's text bleeped unanswered on the IPod amid the crumpled shards, and the IPod's ring tones sang in chorus with the emergency vehicles' sirens.