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Touch-typist.

At school yesterday I saw a girl out of the corner of my eye typing one-handed. I couldn’t help turning and staring since hunt-and-peck typists are such an oddity to me. I mean, really, just spend twenty minutes learning how to type for reals.

She was actually pretty good at it, though, and had a sort of rhythm going. She would look at the screen then at her notes and then at her hand as it snaked its way around the keyboard. I was mesmerized by the smooth way she hit all of the keys with just her left hand and this is probably why it took me a few seconds to realize that she only had a left hand. Its mate was missing along with about half of her right forearm.

I quickly jerked my head away. In an instant I had changed from a rude bystander gawking at somebody’s inability to learn touch-typing into a rude bystander gawking at somebody’s making do despite a fairly debilitating handicap. This is huge douche-bag territory. Thankfully, she didn’t notice me watching.

The worst part was that she was pretty cute and I toyed with the idea of asking her out. In the end my natural inclination towards being a weenie won out. Though I told myself it was excusable only because I had no way of knowing if she was married or not.

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