She stood in the aisle dancing, her hands undulated in rivulets. Earbuds in, pencil thin jeans. 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. Didn’t matter. It’s what I do in the morning on my way to work. “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’d 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. The doors bowed open.
When she exited, she accidentally spilled tea from her open backpack onto a woman near the door.