I smile at your hand; too big for your champagne glass, next to mine curving delicately – about the right size.
I love how your thumb joint is wider, squarer, stronger-looking.
I adore the veins standing proud like steel cables; running back and forth, joining hand to wrist; bold ridges so unlike my own smooth wrists.
I marvel at our differences: the thickness at your shoulder and your neck, your hand speckled with hairs – which I know thicken as they run up your sleeve.
I delight in the knowledge that I was the last one who mapped out your arms before they became hidden by shirt and by suit. No one but I saw those veins spreading life around your body on the morning of our wedding day.
I touch your left hand with my left hand, press my forefinger onto your wedding ring and feel the cool glass of the photo frame.
I stroke those veins now smoothed into a visual likeness and remember how heat touched my body and how we contrasted: soft and cool against hot and strong.
I see my own hands, now no longer smooth. The finger retracing its well-worn path has ridges and veins, freckles and liver spots.
I withdraw my hand in horror – an old woman touching a young man.
I pick up my duster and continue cleaning.