Hands

During my lunch break I felt the hands of your words tugging on my hem. At first I’d thought them a little girl’s hands–slight, undefined–until I recognized the hard lines of experience creased upon their palms as yours. The sharpness of your nails scraped the side of my thigh: an urgent whisper. Still, I pushed them aside, smoothing down my skirt as I walked away from your hands’ telltale persistence.

But I have to wonder: was I right to ignore what your hands were saying? Was I right not to acknowledge their quiet insistent pleading?