Jimmy Wells is not like other boys. This is clear first from looking at him, the curvature of his golden mustache, upturned at the tips like a smile. Your eyes make their way down and find the second peculiar thing about him – he is missing fingers. His left hand can boast only a thumb and a forefinger, and nothing else. No matter, you think. This does not bother you. Jimmy is a nice, sweet boy, one you would be happy to spend your life with. You follow him through the house.
“Wait here,” he says. “I’ve got something for you.
“Close your eyes!” he calls from the other room. You do as he asks. You think you hear him whisper something to himself: “Here comes crawdaddy.”
“Open!” You do, and you’re surprised.
“Do you like it?” he asks. You don’t. You don’t like it one bit.
You tell him that. Jimmy Wells begins to cry. You walk home after a few minutes of uncomfortable, piercing silence. Yet another prospective relationship is ruined by a boy with a thing for lobster costumes.