a girls hands - quotes and descriptions to inspire creative writing
For seemingly no reason the girl's hands swam back into Mac's mind as he took is usual route home. She had passed him an envelope from the mail he'd dropped when she bumped into him at the precinct. Mail that lay unopened in the trunk of his car. She had been kind, apologetic and had had the sort of face that put him immediately at ease. Eyes like his late wife's, that must be why his mind brought him back to this image. But why the hand and not the face? He had admired her ring, white gold with diamonds to match her many bangles. They seemed familiar for a reason, but like a tune whose lyrics escape you, the memories were just out of reach. He dug in his pocket for another pear drop. After swinging into his suburban concrete driveway he removed his sunglasses and stashed them in the glovebox.
They both stretched out their hands to me. I looked from one to the other: the taller one's hands were smooth and pampered, just like the rest of her. Pianist's fingers with cool white skin and perfect manicure. To the touch, they were soft and cold.
The other one's hands were rough, raw, and weary from years of hard work, scorched bright red by a blazing sun. She'd tried to take care of her nails, but apparently given up. Too much heavy lifting.
In the end, I took the second one's hand.
Her palm caressed his cheek, the lines on her hand catching my attention. They swirled on her hand like an unfinished drawing. Her long bony fingers were stroking my cheek, but all I could see were her red knuckles. Wine-red blotches from the cold.
Her hand was sweaty and intertwine in mine. He hand fixed perfectly in mine, her long and thin fingers, completing the space left in mine.
Her hands held mine for no more than a few second then were pulled away and thrust back into the pockets of her thick coat.
Her hands bore the innocence of a young girl; soft and delicate.
Her hands were like the missing puzzle piece to mine. Hers a tiny palm with long, thin fingers, she could be a pianist.
The girl's hands were as rough as any worker in the docks, callused and scarred. Whoever she was she was no princess, or at least she'd never been afforded the opportunity to be one. Mac lifted her fingers to take a sample of what lay under her nails, sometimes the smallest piece of evidence spoke the loudest.