Hands

Her hands were like leather and stained where she picked up her ever present cigarette. Dry skin, an small lie, easily given when I asked about it.

She never made eye contact across the table, except when she would turn away from me to look for the waiter, who was never there when she wanted him to be, and even then, it there was an edge of panic in her eyes.  I tried to tell myself it was for some reason greater than the absent help, but I knew that it wasn’t so.  I would have asked her if she was still taking the pills, but the lies were effortless.  They were easier than looking me in the eye.

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