Saturday, December 4, 2010

Hands


She thought his hands were the most beautiful she had ever seen.

They spent the day in a small gallery in the city. It was just the kind of museum she loved. Diminutive, intimate, quiet, unassuming, old old old, tall and narrow. They took a rest on a carved bench. He cradled her in his arms. They had paused in a particularly religious and Italian room. She made a passing comment about the painting in front of them--something about how humid John the Baptist's furry dress must have been--and he seemed suddenly in rapture for her quaint Christianity. His grip tightened around her as if to say, "What other little notions are in that head?" "Is John the Baptist someone you think of often?" "What a tiny novelty you and your religion are!"


Earlier she had stood transfixed by another painting in the corner.


"That one reminds me of your hands," she told him.


"Which character?" he asked with a half laugh.


"All of them... but particularly the Virgin Mary. Her hands most look like your beautiful hands."


He chuckled, embarrassed, as she took one exquisite hand between her (inferior) two and confirmed the likeness.


He stood before a Modigliani nude and proclaimed that it was his favorite in the gallery. She found herself unreasonably jealous of his admiration for the female flesh; as if this fictitious woman in the painting was better loved than she. But it was a tender and touching rendering. The woman was so tranquil and sad and vulnerable. However, all Anne and her need for perverse disagreement and displays of shallowness could muster was, "But her face is so pointed..."

They left for a coffee on the terrace, and she longed for his beautiful Virgin Mary hands to be touching her as he rolled another cigarette.