Fiction

His hands are thin, dry- the palms are narrow with transparent callouses on the bottoms. He rubs them nervously together when he's standing or against the sides of his pants when he sits, all day long. All year long.
"But how did you feel when she left?"
"I didn't know she was gone," he said.

*********************************

His hands are large and warm, the fingers short and stubby. The tips are yellowed from holding hundreds of cigarettes. His arms wave around making constant assertions; his hands chop the air, slap the desk, hold his head in frustration as he predicates the whole point, the whole truth. That being abroad is like being in a mirror: everything inconsequential about you, inside out.
"Then, were you able to forget?"
He smiles. "I think, I was not."