Beautiful hands

Posted by yz on Friday, October 02, 2009 in randomness,

Her hands were beautiful.

He watched them. He watched through the dusty window of the shop as she stepped out of her car. She was plain. She wasn’t fit. But her hands - her hands were beautiful. He was drawn to them. He stepped out of the shop with its dust covered merchandise, the fridge groaning in the background. A curl of red dust licked the Corolla’s tires, her legs and his shoes. He crossed the hot asphalt as she reached for one of the nozzles.

"You can't do that," He said, glad he had a valid reason. He had to see her hands.

"Oh..." she was nervous.

She pushed up her glasses - thick black-plastic frames. She was wearing a shapeless bright dress - green with red flowers . But her hands were beautiful. He wanted her to push her glasses again.

"Don’t worry about it," he said, smiling nervously. A shot of heat lifted the dust again and shook the trash left by the previous customer, plastic against the cracked white asphalt.

"What kind?" He asked.

"What?"

"What kind of fuel?" He asked. He was trying to discern her breasts and hips beneath the shapeless thing.

"Regular," she answered. She turned.

"You need to pop the lid."
"The lid?" she asked, "Oh! The lid!" She turned, reached into the car and popped the lid. Those fingers... Jesus. They were beautiful. He tried not to look. He lifted the pump handle. The old machine ground to zeros. What was wrong with him? Was this a fetish? And then he wanted to cut loose. Fuck it. What am I doing here? Why am I still in this dump?!

"Your hands!" he blurted instead.

"Excuse me?" she pushed up her glasses.

"Do you," he couldn't help himself. "Your hands... do you do adverts?"
"No." The woman flashed another nervous smile then murmured something.

“What?"

"A …." she said again, mumbling the words.

"Here... wait..." She dug in to a handbag he now noticed, battered once black, seams showing. "Here..." She handed him a card. An unimpressive card. Name. Phone number.

"What... like a pianist?”
"Oh no...no!" She laughed a squeaky little laugh. "But I `am' a professional."

"Like a concert pianist?" He asked sarcastically.

"Well... sort of..."

"Well..." He was getting impatient, re-imagining his tirade: dumps, dead ends. "Well... Sort of... What?"

"I'm good with my fingers..." Glasses up again. God, those hands! -those fingers! "I help people... “

"...to what?" He asked.

"With problems," she answered. "Any kind of problem," she whispered.

Those fingers... He tried not to look."Well, ‘S no use to me,”

"Why?" the woman asked. "May I ask?"

He suddenly wanted the conversation to end. "Look around, this isn’t the kind of problem your hands can solve, OK?"

"I could help you with that."

"Like `hell' you could..."

"I mean," she quickly added, "professionally."

"Do you mind getting out of the way?"

"Out of the...Oh!" The little woman broke into another sheepish smile and quickly moved out of the way.

"I have recommendations..."

"You have..." He tried not to laugh, snorted instead. But what the fuck, why not? Nothing to lose. Laugh about it when he got back to his empty rented…don’t think of that!"Ok... as soon as I'm..."

Jesus! He gasped. Interrupted. Jesus Christ! How did she? Her fingers! So warm! Just the two of them cupping his face… he had clamped down on the nozzle. Oh! The pump began to grind out the gallons. Oh! She was... They were...

How was it possible?

They were so smooth! He wasn't watching the pump. No, not at all, he was staring out beyond the car, across the road, past the boda stage , mama mzungu’s where he got his breakfast, past it all.

His eyelids drooped, his mouth fell open, and the pump clicked on. How was she doing it? How ? Her fingers were pressing into his skin like a bee tickling nectar from the flower's throat. Oh! He never felt so open! He...

He was looking down at himself! He was above his body! He was out of his body! He could see everything! He could see himself looking blankly across the road. He had dandruff. Fucking worthless shampoo.

But He could see everything! Matter. Time. Atoms and four gallons clicked by and then she... He was looking down at the earth! So small! So perfect! And in such a deep and lonely darkness. But he knew where he was. Yes, he knew exactly where he was standing on the little, blue and white ball hanging in the stars. And he could see the billionth spark of life that moved across its surface, in pain, in happiness, sorrow, ecstasy, emptiness and completion. he felt a tremendous tenderness for it all, and love. It all made sense. And he could still hear the grinding click of the pump.

And then there was light! Not just light, but love - ecstatic, unimaginable, perfectly forgiving and perfect love. If he could have wept, he would have. If he could have stayed there in the perfect, beautiful, loving light, he would have. But somewhere, on a tiny mote, a speck, an atom in the unimaginably deep ocean of the cosmos, an old gas pump ground through 6 , 7, 8, and finally, at 21, the nozzle abruptly released. He wanted to shed it all. He wanted to fly. He was trying to breath. He couldn't breath. And then it was over.

There were flowers blooming . He had never noticed them before. Just on the other side of the road. Yes, they were beautiful. Everything was brighter, colors more colorful, the sky bluer, the air sweeter.

"Um?"

Why should he turn? The world was beautiful.

"Um?"

Was she pushing up her glasses?

"There are more things," he said in his suddenly raspy voice, "in heaven and earth than are dreamt of in philosophy."

"Shakespeare?"

"No," he said. "Just a hunch."

Clarity. Oh yes, he had clarity. It all made sense. He knew what he needed to do. First, he would quit smoking. Then he would quit this job. And who was this little woman?

"How much?” she asked.

"No," he answered, still gazing at the beautiful view "It's on me."

The woman awkwardly sidled next to him, glanced at him, smiled sheepishly as she took his hand, the hand holding the nozzle, and removed it from the car. He heard the cap close. He heard the car door close, he heard the motor start. She pulled away. He looked at the card again.

A drawing: two hands, open, like the wings of an angel.