Desert Dusk Music - Thomas Timmins

Sensitive hands

He has the most beautiful hands. Long fingers, arced tips, black hair shiny as crow’s feathers on his knuckles, palms webbed with fine lines. Grinning, he says the tangle of lines means he’s ultra-sensitive. He’s sensitive, but not the way you’d expect. I say “You’re shallow.” He shrugs. I tease him until he’s turned on, then make a married woman’s excuse and split. He smiles. Always eager to see me, never mentions I’m married. Sensitive like the fox. Hangs around after dark, knows when he’s getting too close and when it’s time to leave. I leave. I keep coming back.