The Glove

[A response for today’s prompt on The Daily Post, Let It Be ]

“It’s OK.” Annie accepted the fencing glove from Butch’s extended hand. “I don’t care if you use it, when I’m not.” She slid her right hand into the glove, its long white sleeve extending from her wrist down to the lower third of her arm, OWEN written in faded black marker across the back of the wrist. It was one of only three right-handed gloves (all purchased from second-hand sporting goods stores with Coach Dan’s personal funds) owned by the Bark Bay High School fencing club; The Bird and, when he was at practice, Juan shared the only left-handed glove, another second-hand purchase from their coach.

“It’s starting to rip, on one of the fingers.” Butch touched the back of his right index finger.

Annie nodded, as she placed the black metal mask onto her head. “I know.”

“So why do you like it?” Outbursts of confusion weren’t unusual from Butch, but this tone was different, bewilderment replaced with confrontation. “Why don’t you just get your own?”

Anger flared in Annie’s eyes a moment; she hated having to defend what she saw as her accident of privilege. She lifted the back of the wrist up to Butch’s round face. “Because whoever this OWEN was, she or he knew how to disengage, with the fingers. That’s why the glove’s worn on the back of that finger. And every time I see that worn spot, it reminds me to use proper technique.”

She pulled the mask over her face, words spitting out at Butch from behind the black metal. “So from my perspective, this glove’s fine like it is.”

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