I look at her fingers.
Long and tan and brown and tapered
Towards the end.
Tapping out meaningful messages on her
Expensive, new typewriter.
Her nails are polished and a smooth, clean-looking
Gloss is spread over them, making them look shiny and fake.

I look at my fingers.
Short, placed awkwardly on my pale, dry skin.
The knuckles are peeling and I have
A sunburn on my pudgy hands.
Is that even possible?
They wrinkle in odd spaces,
They bend at strange places.
My cuticles are chewed with nervousness,
The areas beneath my nails are brown with dirt
And other things I’d rather not find out about.

And as I scrutinize my fingers and
Place glancing looks at hers,
She looks away from her obviously important work
And says, “You know, you have beautiful hands.”