|“Honey, have you seen my right arm? That damned prosthesis has disappeared again.”
I sighed as Milton, my husband of some fifty-two years, moved his remaining natural left hand rapidly over his bald pate. I yawned and sat up in bed. “Did you leave its wi-fi on when you took it off last night?” I asked. “You know what happens when you do that. You twitch in your sleep and it slowly crawls away.”
“I know, Kathy, I know.” He pulled off the bed linens, dumped them in a heap on the floor, and surveyed the room.
I scratched my neck as he went into full panic mode. “Honey,” I said, “it’s not in Grandpa O’Neil’s cremation urn. Stop a minute and think. It’s got to be on the floor.”
We both got down on hands and knees and crawled around. A moment later I saw the telltale signs on the carpet: closely spaced finger impressions around a forearm width of perfectly smoothed carpet leading toward the bathroom. “Gotcha,” I said in triumph, but I already dreaded what I would find in there.
I stood and walked into the bathroom, and there it was. The hand and forearm was in the toilet bowl twitching spasmodically, and the rest dangled over the side. A small curl of smoke drifted from the shoulder attachment.
I wrinkled my nose and turned to Milton, who was struggling to his feet. “You don’t, by chance, have to pee really badly, do you?” I asked.
“Yeah, now that you mention it, I do. Make a lane dear.”
I stood aside as he rushed into the bathroom, and stopped just inside the door. “Damn, not again.”
He pulled the dripping arm out of the toilet with two fingers, dropped it into the sink, and sat on the toilet seat, his chin dropping to his chest.
I stared at him as he sat there relieving himself. “You were dreaming about peeing again, weren’t you?” I asked.
“Ayup,” he said. “But at least we have a spare right arm.”
I crossed my arms. “We have a spare? Did you say we? I know I have a spare right arm, but, if I’m not mistaken, that was your spare. You didn’t bother getting your regular arm fixed after the last time, did you?”
“It’s only for a day, dear. I‘ll drop off both my right arms at Radio Shack on my way to the senior center, and pick them up on the way home. Let’s not make a big thing of it. After all, your regular right arm is working fine.”
I rolled my eyes in disgust. “Fine.” I put as much ice into the word as I could, and stomped off to get it. I found it in a storage bin in the garage labeled “Spare Parts”, and carried it back into the house. It used to be my main right arm, but it had gone out of style and become my spare. It had the old pseudo-skin that looked a bit too much like plastic, but it held quite a few fond memories. It even had chipped red polish on the fingernails. On a whim I activated it, and felt a weird doubling sensation as both right arms responded to my commands. Without a shoulder joint to anchor it though, my spare just writhed in my hands. I switched it off and smiled. This could be fun.
When I got back to the bathroom with my spare, Milton was standing in front of the sink awkwardly brushing his teeth with his left hand. He spat and said, “Thanks dear. This is the last time, I promise.”
I pursed my lips and nodded slowly. Milton pulled back his shirt sleeve, exposing his shoulder socket. I fitted the arm’s pin into it, turned it on, and stepped back.
He frowned, and said, “Umm, dear, it’s not working. Did you adjust the arm’s wi-fi frequency?”
Of course I hadn’t. I reached forward with my right arm, concentrating on what my spare was doing. It grabbed an open stick of iridescent red lipstick from the medicine cabinet, and smeared it clumsily all around his mouth, making a huge clown’s grin.
I laughed so hard that tears came dribbling down my cheeks, and I fell to one knee, holding onto the doorframe with my left hand for support.
He just stood there, my spare right arm holding the lipstick threateningly in front of his face. “Dear, this isn’t funny---.”
“Well then,” I said, “I guess there’s more to do.” With that I drew a big red mono-brow across his forehead, and re-centered the threatening lipstick in front of his face.
He turned to me, his face as red as the lipstick. “You don’t want to play this game with me, dear. I have a few tricks up my sleeve too, you know.”
My breath caught in my chest and I convulsed in a powerful orgasm. I groaned loudly and shuddered as I slumped to the floor. “No fair,” I gasped. “I gave you friendly access to my pelvic prosthesis’ frequency years ago.”
As another orgasm washed over me, I let go of the lipstick with my spare arm, and grabbed Milton’s crotch.
In a hoarse whisper I said, “If you do that again, you know I’ll squeeze just a bit too hard. I believe this is what they use to call Mutually Assured Destruction.”
“Hmmm. You seem to have a point. Truce?”
“Truce.” I relaxed my spare arm’s hand.
Milton gave me a devilish grin. “Dear, as long as I’m borrowing parts, would you mind if I borrowed your pelvic prosthesis too? I’ve always wondered what---”
My spare right hand convulsed.