The Toss

The coin turned slowly as it rose and fell, but shafts of light did not ensue to match certain angles in its turning for the coin was an old coin. It was dirty and there was no reflection. Millions of filthy fingers had held it and thousands of mouths had touched it and he didn’t think of any of these things. He admired the slow turning, which he had practiced and perfected and which now made him happy to behold. He had controlled the spinning and made it submit to the authority of his hands and his fingers, which were clean by the way, and the coin had already begun its descent and that meant his right hand was waiting, ready, more muscle and instinct than thought and planning and positional placement. The pads on his pink fingers and pink palm ready to cushion the impact and allow the coin to rest on one of its flat sides when it arrived. This coin wouldn’t bounce off. It wouldn’t roll off. He wouldn’t drop it. There had been too much practice by this time. Years of practice. And it landed softly in the soft part of his soft hands and he deftly placed it face down on the back of his left hand with one swift movement, and now the other face was up.

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Published in: on November 14, 2013 at 7:33 pm  Leave a Comment  

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