Soft

Her hands had once been soft, like silken gloves on a china doll. But now, after years of soaking in detergents, scouring and scrubbing, they had turned to sandpaper-scored leather.

After Mitch died, her sister had encouraged her to date. What a farce! She hadn't even considered other men, hadn't looked at them, socialized with them, or even remotely enjoyed their company for a decade or more. The idea of scrutinizing them, running down a list of pros and cons, hoping to find some sort of spark or connection seemed not only absurd, but a complete waste of time.

Then along came Stephan. With his smooth words and kind disposition. After several encounters at the check-out desk of the library, they had decided to meet for coffee. And when he had leaned over to lay his hand on hers, he had flinched away almost immediately.

She considered explaining how she worked with her hands, but decided against it. She could have dug through her purse for some hand cream, but assumed the gesture was already futile.

When he excused himself to answer his cell phone, she shrugged and sipped at her latte. Perhaps he would return. If not, she had learned a valuable lesson.