Short and stubby fingers. Long, bony ones. Fleshy palms. Green river-like veins trailing from wrist to knuckles. Fair hands so smooth that butter sliding over them would appear rough. Hardened skin with corns borne out of labor and lack of care.
He loved them all. They enthralled him beyond imagination.
Each one told him a story that he was eager to know.
Like the last time he was mixing shades of blue bangles for the lady of the visiting diplomat. Her hands, though neat and manicured still told a sturdy tale. After all, she had worked as a stenographer for a lengthy period of time, apart from working with thimbles and needles, and washing the clothes and dishes for even longer.
But all that was in the past. A past that her present would never disclose.
Except when someone looked at her hands.
He had. And he smiled …