Durf Durfy
Stories (1/0)
Gentrificate
The night breeze at this outdoor café reminds her of his fingers in her hair. She wants those fingers on her skin, her waist. She sighs and leans in to him even more, caressing his soft palms and coarse knuckles. A thickened middle finger joint. A pointer finger ever pointing to it's left. A pinky finger unable to bow. The hands that knew every inch of her and so expertly learned her most private of inches now spent their time fumbling with the wooden table where they sit. Ripping off the stickers from local bars and bands, his smoke-yellowed two fingers use their oil to rub of the remainder of the glue from the first sticker, his left palm rubbed itself against it, rolling it into a tiny ball until his thumb stamped it, stuck to it, and dropped it into an upside down beer cap that was sitting at the table before they intruded on its rest. She is jealous of the stickers, ripped to shreds by his hands, though no one who knew her would ever have guessed. His fingers were all crookedly healed from years of jamming hands bartending without insurance. Half the time she's known him he's had one or another finger handsomely wrapped with popsicle sticks by the school nurses where they met working as assistant teachers. She loves those hands. They show his two jobs, his exhaustive daily effort to succeed. Her last boyfriend's mom got a new nose “just for fun,” and these hands are about 60% of her attraction to her Bushwick-raised man.
By Durf Durfy6 years ago in Humans