Bad Fingers on the Countryside

I’m out on the countryside for the weekend and had a fun night out with friends last night. I started the night at a jazz concert and art exhibition with Hilda, the friend I’m staying with. Her husband had opted to remain at home since he was tired, so for the first part of the evening it was just the two of us. After the concert Liza, a local friend of Hilda’s, joined us for a few glasses of wine. Liza, who I’ve come to know pretty well thanks to my regular visits to the countryside, told us that this guy she likes had been hunting and caught a boar and was now celebrating in a nearby bar. And so off to the bar we went to see if Liza could snag this man.

The local drunks were out in force, and we were quickly dragged into conversation with a few of them. One guy, Martin, was particularly friendly. He grabbed Hilda’s hand and kissed the back of it as he introduced himself. Hilda, who is in her early 60s, found it extremely charming and beamed at him. But her laughter rang through the air as she saw the confused look on my face after he released her hand and reached for mine.

The rest of the night Martin kept periodically insisting on holding my hand, constantly telling me about his and my “bad fingers”. I didn’t quite know what to make of it, so I just went with the flow, offering him my hand briefly each time he requested it and then pulling it back after allowing him to squeeze it for a couple of seconds.

If he’d been cute perhaps I would have considered seeing just how bad our fingers could get. But as I looked around I realized I didn’t find any of the strangers in the bar very attractive and began to wonder how celibate I would be if I lived on the countryside.

I love the country, but in my heart I am definitely a city boy.

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