HUMANS HAVE FEW REDEEMING QUALITIES, BUT THEIR fingerprints are
miniature works of art.
I am well-read in fingerprints. I suppose you could say it is one fortunate side effect of dealing with humans all day long, their trembling boogers and damp armpits, their sticky palms reeking of floral lotion and Popsicle residue.
But when the doors lock for the night and the lights dim, they leave behind a stunning, intricate mural on the glass at the front of my tank.
Sometimes I spend quite some time staring at them, studying. Little oval masterpieces. I visually trace the grooves from the outside into the center, then back out to the edge again. Each one unique. I remember all of them.
Fingerprints are like keys, with their specific shape. I remember all keys, too.
