He plays with my ring. I wince a little when he finally manages to remove it. There is always reluctance in parting.
He’s got the most beautiful fingers I’ve ever seen. The long stalks that held pencils, pens, paint brushes, cigarettes and women among others. Cigarettes didn’t suit him some years ago. They do now.
Women. It was a singular thing in his life before. The past never is really past. I always look back.
“Tell me about her. And her. And her. And every one of them. 8 years of women to catch up with.”
The numbers and names roll off his tongue.
Really? So many? I never ask.
“And the sex?”
“It’s always been interesting. It’s different… different women different times and same woman different times.”
Oh.
“Tell me more.”
We never had secrets. And when we finally did, they ate us up. Secrets not shared become bigger than you and they gobble you up.
It was a train journey. The flimsy curtains showed more than they covered. But one hoped they covered more. Train seats aren’t really meant for two to lie. And in that lay all the fun.
But he stops abruptly. He stretches his hands recklessly towards me.
His fingers that unhooked many layers off many women. His fingers that trembled when they wrote his address on a book I still have saved. Fingers that caught a handful of sky, more sky than my small ones ever could. They’re still as beautiful.
I had lent out what was mine. Now I take them back.
fatimaalkaff 