A Writer's Hands

I sat across the room, simply watching him as he sat there, bathed in a brilliant shaft of the sun’s summer splendor. Flecks of dust floated lazily to the floor, creating a dull glow that seemed to cling to him in all the right places.

The English room always smelled like old books and wooden floors.

As I sat there, neglecting my Othello, I studied him when I was sure he was absorbed with his text. His hands were long and slender. Soft, but very masculine. His fingers, short but thin, were intelligent – piano player’s hands. His fingernails were short and stubby, surely bitten to the quick while their owner was deep in thought. He had a large calous on one finger, where his pencil rested.

He chewed on the end of a pencil, reasoning out Shakespeare’s antiquated English passages.

His eyes – seafoam green and, oh, so very beautiful – were hidden behind magnificent eyelashes, surely longer than my own. There was a thin frown of thought between his eyes.

He was so singular. So perfectly his own.

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