My mother used to say I had “difficult hands.” Not ugly. Difficult . Like they were always reaching for something they shouldn’t. A hot stove. A married man. The last biscuit.
That’s the thing about death, isn’t it? It’s the admin. The voicemail you have to delete. The jumper you can’t throw away because it still smells of their neck. The freezer full of frozen rodents you’re too much of a coward to bury. fleabag play script
So that’s where we are. I’ve got a freezer with less guilt in it, a spatula with dirt under the rim, and a face that looks like it’s just seen its own ghost. My mother used to say I had “difficult hands
