Hands

There was something about her hands that attracted me. They were delicate with a hint of callouses on the fingers of the left one. The fingers were that length where they feel a little longer than average, and they curved sensuously when I first noticed them, gripping a Starbucks cup while sitting across and a bit over from me at the large conference-room table. The “new girl” was how she identified herself when we met a few weeks ago but I was too busy toting a stack of copies to, in fact, this same conference room for some collating to say anything but “Hi. Nice to meet you.”

As today’s meeting broke up, neither of us having said a word, I felt her hand on my left bicep.

“I was told I’m working with you on my new assignment. We were sort of introduced when I got here—”

“As the ‘new girl.’”

“Yes, as the new girl. I am Edna Jones.”

“Edna? That’s an unfortunate name.” It popped out before I could stop.

“Tell me about it. Look, I have a gig this weekend. Nothing big. Our band gets fifty minutes on some Saturdays at a dive on the Lower East Side.”

“You play the guitar, right?”

She held up her left hand. “The callouses?”

“The callouses. I’d love to come. When and where?”

And she told me and I went. It’s how I fell in love with my wife.