In response to this prompt…
David examined his left hand. He wondered, as he always did, why the left had so much more character than the right. Since he favoured writing by hand, most of his poems and stories were written solely with his dominant right hand, yet the left was the one his eyes were always drawn to.
When he was alone, when his hand strayed aimlessly down his chin, or played tapped nervously on the desk in his office, it was always the left.
Other people might live their entire lives without noticing such a contradiction, but David Seven prided himself on noticing small things, and worrying about them. In fact he prided himself on a number of things, but this was the one trait he found most socially acceptable, if a little annoying to others – he had to know everything.
Staring at the sinister hand, he read his life in the smooth, unblemished palm. He wished that it were bigger; manlier; less pale. He wished it didn’t look so much like a wimpish lawyer’s hand. He wished that it did not give away so many of his secrets. Because no matter how good a poker face he had, no matter how he hid his emotions, no matter how he tried to pretend he was someone else…
…the hand always gave him away.
David did not like being given away.