It is the big day.

It’s going to happen today. I’m so excited. I hardly slept last night. And when I did, in my dream, I danced in green washing-up gloves until the morning. And I was in bubbles. No, it wasn’t a commercial.

Nothing in my wardrobe felt right for me right now. A leopard-patterned silk scarf and a boxers: I admit it’s an assertive combination. Let no one judge me. It’s the first time I’ve been in such a situation. I attracted some attention on the underground, but thanks to the woman humming a song to herself in an incomprehensible language and the guy in the wetsuit, no one focused on me. It’s not illegal. No one can judge me for that. I don’t care. I am thrilled. It is the big day.

I was quite calm when I got there. A man in a white coat eating a watermelon (a big piece, but it was interesting that it was super clean after every bite) checked the documents and asked:

“Your hands will be changed. Is that true?”

“Yes.”

“Is there anything else you want to change?”

I swallowed. Right now, I could change my genitals and improve my quality of life a lot. Would I be a different man? I would be the same man, just a man with a bigger penis. Never the same. The money in my wallet was only enough to change my hands. It was pretty enough for me.

I said, “Just my hands.”

I took £10,000 out of my wallet and handed it to him.

He said, “Come on in.”

“Did you bring your washing-up gloves?”

That’s the most ridiculous part. They want you to dance in green washing-up gloves under a white light.

He seriously said:

“Strip completely naked and get under the disco ball.”

“But I only have a boxers and a leopard silk scarf.”

He looked at me seriously.

“So leave the boxers. Skip the scarf. But it is very stylish. Thank you.”

I did. I wonder what my hands would look like.

Just then, there was a knock on the door. And I met Modigliani. I stood naked while he looked at me in his clothes. He had a fancy hat on his head and a nice trench coat on top, all handsome as always… I recalculate if I am still heterosexual. I am.

“Did you call him to humiliate me!” I shouted in anger.

“I’m naked here for the operation, and I’m wearing washing-up gloves and dancing under a disco ball. Damn it!”

“But you want Modigliani’s hands?”

“I didn’t expect him to come himself. You didn’t tell me that. Are you going to give me his own hands? What will he do?”

Modigliani smiled:

“Even if you have 20 lives like Buddhism says, you can’t afford to use my hands.”

The officer said:

“No. The hands are designed especially for you.”

“And will it look like that in his portraits? Those hands have a unique shape compared to the normal ones. Crooked hands! Will I turn into the people in his paintings? They had very long hands! Oh, my God.”

“No, it will be a normal hand, just more talented, like Modigliani.”

Modigliani smiled. I felt as if he did not believe in the process.

If you were expecting this to be a dream, it wasn’t. It was real. It was my reality. I wanted my hands to change. I wanted artist’s hands. Was I escaping from my increasingly boring life? Will I really be an artist?

When I woke up after the operation, the staff gave me clothes so that I would not be disgraced and sent me home. The outfit they gave me was a purple bathrobe, as if it didn’t attract attention. Anyway, I sat on the underground. My hands weren’t bandaged or anything. They looked very nice — thinner, longer fingers, healthier but characteristic — like a normal human hand but more beautiful.

I immediately asked the girl in the underground for a paper and pen. She let me draw her, and I became popular in a minute. It was impressive! It was a masterpiece! All the underground people, even the driver, came after he stopped the underground. He wanted a portrait for his wife for the anniversary.

I was so excited when I got home.

I wrote my name. He wrote it very elegantly. I drew. I could draw anything. Anything. I went to the canvas. It was marvellous. An hour later, I’d painted myself three masterpieces. All three could go down in art history. But after a while, I started to get bored. They were all perfectly perfect in a boring way.

I wanted to shove them all in the sink and destroy them. My anger grew. They were not mine. They were Modigliani’s. He was the real artist. Not me. I just wanted to buy his talent. It was impossible. He sacrificed for his art; he even slept in an atelier every night; he had all the pain and the tragic story. But for me, not having enough cucumber is a form of anxiety that makes me think I am dying. Anyone who wants to be that great should pay the price. And it wasn’t the price I had paid. I understood what he wanted to say to me.

Were these paintings mine? No.

I called and asked for my money back and for my old, imperfect hands.

They performed a new operation. We invited Modigliani back. He was calm, smiled, and didn’t say a word.

I got my hands back and came back home: my TV remote, my snacks, and my belly.

This wasn’t a dream either.