His hands were dry

His hands were dry – soft but not delicate. The fingers were individually hairy but not in a way that was anything but Italian.

That old gold watch snugged up around his wrist – battered like his heart after all these years. Battered but accurate and always on time.

For as much as he smoked – his hands didn’t betray him. There were no yellow smudges or unsightly blemishes. Even his nails were perfect.

His grace was incongruous to his large frame – to his chicken legs and barrel chest. There was not an ounce of weakness in him.


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