Wish for the left hand

The woman thought she had no duty except to serve his pierre with her mundo and genie, and when not joined, her duty was to shine in his eyes, to fawn, to accentuate her value as a precious object to look upon because her duty to write her work mattered less -- out of a rival survivalist necessity -- or because she knew that to shine her eyes upon him could buy her quiet time to write down her work, her work that showed vehemence: hardly a soul could pin him for creating the vehemence that found a streamule to her pen if she wrote on paper or a fanjet to her keyboard, typing very quickly and exactly and satisfyingly in print, not cursive, printing very quickly using eight fingers and two thumbs, the left thumb idle but prepared to do something and yet doing absolutely nothing except yielding to the hand during the typing procedure, the left thumb guidant or conversant with the other thumb, with the balance in the wrist, with the rest -- woe it is the duty of the right thumb to type the space, leaving no duty for the left thumb except to be there. If she were to lose a manual digit, it is the left thumb that could go with ease and not injure her typing, her vehemence, not distress her for writing purposes -- she could do without distress were she to be missing her left thumb. Her shining eyes would seem piteous without her thumb, but he would sometimes forget it, her missing thing, her finger, an exaggeration of their other worries, cut off on a windshield wiper, or the horrors and the honors.