How homely are our extremities, and yet how utterly fundamental to everything we've ever been. They are functionally mute but so horribly, indelicately indiscreet. I loathe imposed handshakes but take a deep and inverse pleasure in those I welcome.
Hands have always helped me decide.
I'm not sure what conclusions should be drawn from feet. Mine are feral, frequently dirty and freakishly prehensile (they can write a perfectly legible sentence) and look far more like sisters to my hands than cousins.
They split spectators into two camps; those repulsed by the thought of them fondling their earlobes and those willing to embrace phalangeal shenanigans. It has proven a fine test of character.
After coming in from planting roses we were sitting in the darkness of the bedroom drinking tea and I noticed the cut on his hand. And how much I loved all the details; sinuous turquoise veins, the plicated reciprocity of the lines and indentations, thickened skin, wear and tear, even the slightly dirty fingernails. His hands are much softer than they look and far more picturesque than mine.