I drummed my fingers against the table absent-mindedly. Iulian picked up my hand and held it in his, palm down. With his other hand, he traced the contours of my fingers, feeling the soft downy hair that my mother had always told me I should shave off. He lifted my fingers carefully, as if examining them. Finally, he said something.
“Do you like your nails to look like this?”
What kind of question was that? He sounded like my dad.
“I guess.” To be honest, I wasn’t sure if I did. Black was the only color polish I liked the look of on my short nails, and the only reason I used it at all was because I was in the bad habit of biting my nails. However, despite the toxically bitter taste of the nail polish, I still bit my nails, except only along the sides, so that now they came to rounded points.
He seemed to consider this as he put my hand down again and put his atop mine. It was then that I realized how big his hands were. Not only were they twice the size of mine, though, the hair on his arms didn’t end just a little past his wrist; most of the back of his hand and fingers were covered in hair. Aside from a couple broken ones, his nails were long and slightly curled and were all the bluish yellow color of a bruise. Noticing my staring, he pulled back his arm and hid his hands under the table.