The funk of becoming.
My hands are so soft today, thought Micheal. It’s like I’m melting. It’s 105° degrees Fahrenheit with the heat index figured in. Everybody in the park must feel like they’re turning to mush.
He shouted, “What the hell?”
Micheal pulled his left hand from the top wood beam of the painted green park bench. Splotches of his skin tore from his palm. He looked around but no one paid him any attention.
“People must be used to strange outbursts or too occupied to care about a nut like me screaming out,” he murmured.
Micheal rushed to his car and carefully scooched in grabbing everything by using the bottom of his t-shirt to buffer contact. The shirt’s nylon material prevented his skin from sticking to objects.
Feeling suddenly exhausted and confused, Micheal barely had the energy to google peeling skin conditions. He began to feel extremely hot. His search didn’t bring any satisfactory answers about his palms suddenly getting smooshy and shedding skin.
