People became prisoners of many things. Love, money, and even time. Being bound to a pair of gloves never made it to Callen’s top ten list. Of course it was what the gloves represented that made them penitentiary status.
Standing at his locker, Callen shook those thoughts from his brain while scrupulously plucking a tan pair out of its package. These gloves were a lighter material to prepare for the impending spring weather and would provide respite for his sweaty palms. Besides, the others pair had seen their day.
He calculated that each pair lasts an average of two months. The fingertips were always the first to fray, followed by the edging along the palms. He was always surprised by how much use his hands got in any given day. He could probably develop a better prototype someday.
And make his life even more about the gloves? Screw that, he thought.
Callen glanced both ways making sure he was alone in the hallway. Every other sophomore was at lunch. He was excused to the bathroom. The lunch monitor, Mr. Stuckey, always took pity on him. Probably figured he needed more time, with the gloves on and all. Savoring this moment of freedom from the confines of his glove detention, he examined his skin in the flailing fluorescent lights. Mottled red bumps ran along the tops of his fingers and moved in jagged lines down his wrists.
He felt disgust.
* * *
"Yes, well, while we at Garrigan's Gloves were initially intrigued by the offer of 'subtle and subliminal' product placement in your novel, I'm afraid this isn't quite what we had in mind..."
Opening: Christina.....Continuation: Anon.