The Rough Fingertips

Long fingernails click clack on a table. Spin a diamond ring around a finger in circles. Twirl some long hair around that finger into nice golden-brown ringlets, then toss it out of the way and let the wind catch it. These are the same habits I acted out as a teenager, through the slow approach toward womanhood, and onward. The sun flashed down on me from the swaying shadow of the trees above. The wind flickered the bottom edge of my skirt. I fingered the hem of that skirt and I thought, I love being a woman.

I stood there in that innocuous place, waiting for someone, with nothing to do, but a mind never has to be idle. Memories make for good entertainment. I twisted my lips to cover over the smile, as none of the passersby were entitled to share my thoughts.

The Opposites: Light vs. Dark

Abrasive fingers ran across smooth skin, catching on fabric here and there. They were rough fingertips of well used hands, the way they were meant to be. The touch left invisible trails of heat running from where they had been, lines like roads on a map, moving up and down, intersecting. I sat there feeling the roads and a picture entered my head of how it all looked from the outside, as a scene unfolding, and that picture set the mood. I preferred to absorb the action, rather than to act. Absorb, and watch. Absorb all that it was to be me—a woman.

I love being a woman. Women have shape, and shape is something I think all humans find appealing. Even women themselves, who are not so visually obsessed. Isn’t a curving line more interesting than a flat stick? Breasts are more interesting than a flat chest. The roundness of hips more fun to trace with rough fingertips than the flat side of a rectangle.

Above vs. Below

Rough fingertips ran down clothing and into them, removing the things that got into the way. Long hair was tangled, knotted up, half obscuring the view of the rough fingers, and in the way. Long hair is always in the way. Forward movement; mouth on throat. Head tossed back, long hair conveniently out of the way. Still absorbing the moment, feeling the difference—male vs. female; line vs. curve. Instigating vs. absorbing.

Maybe I was born a man in my last life, and it didn’t suit me, so now my soul basks in the opposite. Maybe I have a penchant for absolutes. Skirts and dresses. Heels and eyeshadow. Or better still: drastic comparisons. High pitched or deep. Small or large. Perfume or sweat.

Human vs. Nature

A lovely combination of attributes we were, mingled there. Rough fingertips intertwined with smooth thinner ones; long hair caught on the stubble of a day-old shaven jawline. There I was still absorbing it all, glad to be the one on the high end of the deep, the small side of the large, the perfume-scented of the sweat, so that I could entirely appreciate my opposite.

I love being a woman.