Chapter 7: Thumbs Down

7:00 a.m.

Pop.

By now, you don’t even open your eyes right away. You just do a mental scan: Are you clothed? What’s touching you? Is anything wet?

Check, check, and—wait.

Wet?

Oh no.

Your right thumb was deep in someone’s mouth.

Not a kiss. Not a nibble.

I mean lodged. Stuck. Like you had pressed it into a vacuum-sealed hole and now you were part of the suction ecosystem.

She sat beside you, stiff as a board, eyes wide with confusion and a distinct don’t-you-dare-make-this-weirder energy.

It was Karen.

Your dad’s ex-wife.

Hair freshly styled. Nails manicured. Wearing a silky robe that screamed I am not emotionally prepared for this.

And your thumb was stuck in her mouth like she was taste-testing your soul.

7:01 a.m. – Mutual Horror

You stare at each other.

She tries to open her mouth.

Your thumb doesn’t budge.

She gags slightly.

You whimper.

“This is…” you begin, voice cracking, “not what it looks like.”

Her pupils contract. You feel the vacuum seal tighten.

“Can you—can you not—suck?” you whisper.

She makes a muffled **** noise that might’ve been a scream.

7:07 a.m. – Panic Shuffle

You stumble to the bathroom like an awkward conjoined horror show, Karen muttering curse words around the meaty invader that is your thumb, and you half-yelling “I’M SORRY I’M SORRY I DIDN’T ASK FOR THIS” on loop.

She points at the sink. You turn it on. She dunks her face.

Your thumb remains exactly where it is: inside her mouth, halfway between dental procedure and medieval punishment.

She pounds the sink. You pound the wall. You are a symphony of regret and spitting noises.

7:24 a.m. – Explaining the Curse While Digitally Fused

You gingerly hand her your phone, awkwardly narrating the genie curse to Karen while she paces the living room like a Roomba in emotional crisis.

Every few minutes she pauses to glare at you.

You can’t tell if she is angry or just **** slightly.

She types back on your phone with her free hand:

“You could’ve wished for wealth. Or peace. Or a better haircut.”

You type:

“It was a horny wish made in bad faith and worse lighting.”

She types:

“If you brush my teeth, I’m pressing charges.”

Fair.

7:58 a.m.

You stand in front of the building. Karen’s mouth is still locked around your thumb like you are a cursed lollipop. Your face is hollowed out by grief and the knowledge that Linda from HR is going to see this.

Karen—your ex-stepmom, nemesis of your adolescence, serial re-gifter—glares at the mirrored glass doors. She is dressed in one of your spare sweatshirts, cinched tight at the neck to hide your horrible connection.

You turn to her, sigh, and say, “On a scale of one to ****, how close are you to ripping this thumb off?”

Her eyes narrow.

“Okay,” you mutter. “Let’s just… power through.”

You enter.

8:03 a.m. – Elevator of Doom

The elevator is packed. Obviously. Mondays were never merciful.

You press the button with your elbow. Karen’s mouth squelches softly with every jostle. You both stare dead ahead. At the numbers. At nothing.

Bryce turns slowly from the back corner.

“…yo,” he whispers.

“Don’t,” you say.

“…Is she—”

“Don’t.”

He looks down. Sees the hand. Sees the thumb. Sees the open, very unwilling eye contact Karen is making with the back of your hand.

He covers his mouth and starts shaking violently.

He is not laughing. He is screaming silently into the void.

8:14 a.m. – Cubicle Containment Zone

You sit down at your desk.

Karen follows, slightly hunched, hovering behind your arm like a one-person marionette show with a deep grudge.

Linda shows up immediately. Clipboard in hand. Soul already halfway out of her body.

She looks down at your hand. Blinks twice.

“Connor.”

“Hi, Linda.”

“Is… is she… attached to you?”

“Involuntarily.”

“Why her mouth.”

“I didn’t ask for that.”

Linda rubs her temple.

“Do you think this is appropriate in a professional setting?”

“Absolutely not.”

Linda sighs.

“Carry on.”

Because she can’t fire you.

Thanks, genie.

9:42 a.m. – Snack Break Sadness

Karen wants coffee. Can’t speak. Can only gesture.

She glares at you. Then at the coffee machine. Then back at you.

You make her a latte. She takes a sip—your hand awkwardly hovering under her chin like a crooked feeding tube. She glares again. More sugar.

You obey.

A coworker walks by, takes one look at the scene, and promptly walks into a potted plant.

11:22 a.m. – The Meeting

You are invited to a “brief sync.”

Fifteen people.

PowerPoint.

Projector.

Middle-aged men in collared shirts trying to one-up each other using the phrase “action item.”

You sit in the back. Karen sits beside you. Still attached. Still biting just a little too much.

Your boss pauses mid-slide.

Looks at you. Looks at Karen. Looks at the thumb.

“…We’ll circle back to you,” he says.

Someone in the front row mutters, “Jesus Christ.”

2:37 p.m. – Moment of Emotional Clarity

You sit in the supply closet.

Dark. Quiet. Smells like toner and despair.

You look at Karen.

“You know this is ruining both our lives, right?”

She nods solemnly, her cheek gently brushing your wrist as she shifts.

You add, “I didn’t ask for you. I didn’t even think of you.”

She glares.

“No offense,” you add quickly.

She types something on her phone and holds it up:

“You’re lucky I’m emotionally numb from two divorces.”

Fair.

5:00 p.m. – Clocking Out

The elevator ride down is blissfully empty. You don’t speak.

Bryce gives you a double thumbs-up as you pass reception.

Linda whispers, “Just take tomorrow off. Please.”

Karen’s eyes sparkle with menace.

6:12 p.m. – Freedom

You sit in the living room.

Karen’s head is on a pillow.

Your thumb is still in her mouth, now resting awkwardly between her cheek and tongue like a hostage snack.

You are eating pizza one-handed and watching Wheel of Fortune.

She types on her phone again:

“You owe me therapy.

And a manicure.”

Then:

“You were kind of a weird kid.

This tracks.”

You don’t even argue.

**7:00 a.m. – Pop. **

Your thumb slips out like a sword from a stone.

She gasps. You recoil. You both fall off the couch like you’ve just been exorcised.

A silence settles over the room.

Then she sits up, looks at you calmly, and says:

“I’m telling your father.”

She leaves.

You look at your thumb.

It is pruney.

It is trembling.

And somewhere, the genie is laughing.