We went strolling around Eastern Market, idling past jewelry vendors and fruit merchants. Next to a tent hawking odd fur caps, we found a mess of unsorted books; some were on shelves, some on a table and some in boxes. The Book of the Hand caught my eye and I began leafing through it, wondering how its antiquated nomenclature would divine and define me based on the geometry of my hand.
As I turned to page 48, I saw it there, my hand with its stubby fingers and knotted knuckles. Eagerly, I read the caption. This is what I saw: