You feel uncomfortable, I can tell, and this makes me more awkward than I should be. My teaspoon is a wind chime trapped in a cup, clattering to escape. I draw the spoon out and accidentally drop it under the table.
I look at my hands. My right hand has two small blisters which hurt a little. I press against them with the thumb of my left hand to make them hurt more. (I like my hands like this, the way they feel when I use them.) You start watching my hands too, and so I stop. There is something small like a hiccup or a giggle trying to get out from under my ribs. You ask what happened to my hand and I shrug.
Your hands are the same as I remember them, same fingers, same wrists. You have the same voice. But there is nothing to say, I have nothing to say. Not because there aren't a million things in my head but I do not want you to have any of them.
*
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5 comments:
Cryptic.
(When I have something like a blister, I tend to press on it repeatedly. That sort of mild pain is interesting.)
Catching up, I'm sorry about the strike. How very frustrating.
You have just penned my greatest fear. I imagine being the one sitting in the other seat, desperately trying to connect although knowing in my gut that it is agonizingly hopeless.
Secret Agent, I find that kind of pain interesting too, so much so that I cannot leave it alone.
Jerry, I find *that* kind of pain too interesting too, that kind of isolation that one can only feel when isolated from someone specific. So much so that I cannot leave it alone.
Hands. When I miss people, I miss the hands.
xxx P
(You have made Sunday coffee wonderful. I am so tempted to start at 2005 again and feel contentment all day. The present to myself was make-up. A foundation, in fact. It was a little bit more pricey. It covers like you have been airbrushed. I think I am in love with it already.)
Yikes, 2005 seems so long ago... I don't think you should subject yourself to it. Glad you enjoyed your present to you -- you deserve it!
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