The Broken Hand

“Do you need self smoke?”
“What?”
“Do you need some smoke pot for self?” he said pointing to his hand, looking concerned.
“Oh, no thank you, I don’t smoke,” I said gently.

In the hallway light, the small Mexican man with his shiny taut skin looked angelic, crystal, fragile. All the other times I had seen him, he was drunk, and as much as I tried, I couldn't understand his English. There were metal pins writhing beneath my flesh like silver snakes, my hand covered in a cast. The door to my building needed two hands. He lent his. He knew about the pain and tried to offer me his medicine.