A young woman of lanky, long hair, earbuds in, black pencil jeans, gave up her seat. She stood in the aisle dancing, her hands undulated in rivulets. Later when a bunch of people exited she sat down next to me and admired my rings. Said she always had trouble getting rings. “I never liked my hands. I think they’re ugly.” She had graceful small hands like a Balinese dancer’s. “It’s because my knuckles are so large. It’s hard getting a ring over my knuckles.” When she exited, she accidentally spilled tea from her open backpack onto a woman near the door.
She stood in the middle of the subway car, ear bud wires tangled around her waist. Her hands undulated above my head. I couldn’t tell if she was high or listening to music. Maybe too much organic food. Didn’t matter. It’s what I do in the morning on my way to work. I watch. I put down my cellphone. “What are you listening to?” People don’t talk much on the subway. Even the crazy ones. They sleep.
The young woman of lanky, long hair had a story up her sleeve. A large honeybee sat on the sepal of her hand with outstretched wings. Like a mosaic. A wolf hunted at the bottom of a mountain, a dark silhouette of a moon cast shadows on her shoulder. There was a house and a door. I couldn’t see where it ended.
She pointed to my ring, the lapis lazuli and silver one that I got on vacation. Extended her hand, her hand with a story running up her sleeve. I now saw how it began with a green stone wrapped in gold filigree. “My grandmother’s ring,” she said. “It’s the only one I ever wear.” By this time, the train had pulled into her stop. The doors opened, then shut. She looked back at me and waved her ringed hand. I watched the doors bow open.