As my employer, Mr. Percy Esq., began to dictate litigation, I found my eyes constantly drifting away from my newly purchased quill towards Mr. Percy’s left hand. Whenever the opportunity arose, I had trained myself to study the hand so as to not draw suspicion from Mr. Percy. For you see, his appendage is always shrouded in a pristine white glove. The fabric looks extraordinarily smooth to the touch as though it came from an exotic land where materials, even white cloth, never get dirty. While with most gloves one can see the seams along the inside finger line, this particular mitt shows nothing to indicate a tailor crafted the item. Around the wrist a small oval mother of pearl belt buckle delicately secures the glove to the arm. As immaculate and interesting as this glove itself is, there is more to Mr. Percy’s story; for you see the hand never moves and is forever locked in a twisted position of discomfort. Mr. Percy’s fingers—long feminine extremities for such an obese and selfish old man—are frozen in some sort of crooked claw forever trying to hold a lost item in a frustrated embrace. What ill fate befell this hand my employer will not say or disclose to even the closest of acquaintances. I wholeheartedly believe Mr. Percy wears the glove to conceal the hideousness of what lies beneath. During times like these, when the opportunity to catch a glimpse arises, I find myself dreaming about the hand’s mystery or unholy scarring underneath the glove. This unhealthy obsession of conjuring is constantly making me yearn for resolve in regards to what the white glove so elegantly hides.