She has her dad's hands.
It's not that her dad has feminine hands--but can we just take a second to visualize that? Like, a really sturdy looking guy with prickly salt and pepper scrubble, a polo-shirt-pot belly stuffed into faded blue jeans threatening to burst at the buckle, arms like freakin' mammoth legs, and then attached to them are these dainty little lady hands? I imagine his perfectly manicured nails to be painted a glossy red, and his hands posed around his face like he's Miranda Kerr trying to sell me a Swarovski bracelet. But I'm just making this up, of course. I've never even met her dad.
In fact, this was the first time I've met her. I say "the first time" implying that I assume we will meet again--this is the only bus stop in town, and the town is small. And not only is this the first time I've met her, but she is also the first person I've formally met as I've only just moved in late last evening.
"I have very masculine hands," she says, not breaking her eye contact with her baby blue mary jane's. This is her "hello," I guess.
"I see," I say, not thinking about how strangely specific of a detail it is that she has just volunteered. Instead, I wonder if that's why she's wearing one of those chunky knit sweaters--to hide her hands in the oversized sleeves.
I said "I see" with the initial intention of communicating that I have duly noted this piece of information she has given me, but I also look down at her hands. A silver ring adorns each finger.
"To make them look more feminine," she says. She, with soft brown eyes, elegant décolletage, and a delicate cupid's bow.
The only finger that remains bare is her right pinky because there isn't a ring small enough to fit it, according to her. I open my mouth to wish her luck in her search to find one that does but immediately close it because I decide she's better off without it. I want to tell her that perhaps that dainty digit remains untouched as a reminder of the femininity she possesses all on her own. But I don't say that either. That would be weird. Instead, I look down at my own swollen, raw working hands and say, "me too."
