Conrad & Eleanor (2016)
“His own long bony fingers; pianists’ fingers, Eleanor used to say, kissing them and pressing her palms against his, laughingly comparing sizes. Such lovely, clever hands, you should have been a surgeon. He sees that the finger ends, beneath his close-bitten nails, are yellowish white with pressure; that the joints, bent like the splayed legs of a spider, are arthritically bulbous; that his chapped skin pulls and creases across the knobbly bones and protruding sinews like an ill-fitting stretc...h cover draped over an old sofa. He can see his swollen veins, purple worms beneath the skin.
Quickly he releases the ledge, and buries the hands in his pockets like the shameful things they are. People must be staring at him, a madman gripping a shelf like it’s the edge of a cliff, reflected in the mirror for all to see. He pushes himself up from the stool and out into the cold air. There’s a queue of cars all pumping exhaust into the clinging white fog, making a choking mix that catches in his throat.MoreLess
Quickly he releases the ledge, and buries the hands in his pockets like the shameful things they are. People must be staring at him, a madman gripping a shelf like it’s the edge of a cliff, reflected in the mirror for all to see. He pushes himself up from the stool and out into the cold air. There’s a queue of cars all pumping exhaust into the clinging white fog, making a choking mix that catches in his throat.MoreLess
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