i'm standing in line to buy a drink. the girl in front of me has straight, shoulder-length light brown hair and i see the corner of her black sunglasses, but not her face. my eyes are roaming aimlessly as i wait, light briefly on her hands...

and then jerk back violently and widen. she clutches a tangle of keys and ornaments and has no red nail polish. but the calloused, red fingers are the same. the long, filed nails are clean and white.

the girl with the hands.

suddenly i feel like a voyeur as my eyes take in her thin shirt, cotton and lace, her blue sailor skirt and sandals, khaki multipocketed purse and olive green backpack. she's so delicate and small. so white. and her hands are so rough. she's twirling her ID in those hands. around and around in her fingers, and i'm mesmerized. i try to read the name then hear her order two veggie pizzas and my stomach flips again. she's perfect and i'm watching her and i can't see her face. i know it's her. it has to be with those hands. but all i can see is the line of her cheek with dark sunglasses resting.

i'm barely two feet away and it feels illegal. impossible. there's a movie playing out in front of me and i've somehow slipped into the screen.

she pays and thanks and moves and leaves. i get a glimpse of her face. i'm sure i'm grinning like an idiot and i don't know how she's done this to me. it's not like it's anything sexual. it's not like it's romantic. it's just the image of her. the way the parts fit together. the parts of her body, yes, but also her clothes and voice and choices. most of all her hands.

she makes me imagine.