I felt a pinch in my palm: a rosebud sprouted from my life line.
Its sepals clung together like a trembling suit of armor. I understood; my palm was unfamiliar soil. I fed it
drops of sunlight, sang it to sleep, and every day drank a glass of water to keep it hydrated.
I found a book on the rearing of palm roses, which advised living one-handed, a spoonful of honey, and lots of spinach; instead of the organic stuff, I took iron tablets. I was no Popeye, but still
the rosebud bloomed. A ripe, lemon yellow, and its beauty drew a crowd. I stood offstage, left arm extended under the light, bearing the lactic acid burn.
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