reveal so much more about who she is than any other feature. Faces can be made up or controlled. Figures can be accidental, or contrived. And legs, after all, are just something to walk around on.
The hands alone are naked. They can tell you all you need to know about the person they’re attached to. Long red nails and chubby knuckles? A bonbon eater, stay away. Stubby, chewed-off nails and twitching fingers? A nervous wreck, a bed-wetter, a neurotic. If you know what to look for, you’ll never be surprised. Other features might be more seductive, but only the hands tell the truth.
This woman’s hands looked strong. They were lined and the nails were neat; not painted, but glossy with health, trimmed to a useful length. Like that impossible neck, the hands were close to perfect.
I looked up at her profile again. She had turned away to look out the window, and in turning had caused a tendon to stand out on her neck. It ran in a graceful curve up from her shoulder and into the halo of her hair, accenting unnecessarily the unbearable delicacy of her neck. At the corner of her mouth I could see a very slight smile playing on her full lips.
I felt two steps back from the grave for the first time in eighteen months. I had to speak. If she was a Twinkie I needed to know, and fast, because otherwise—I couldn’t say. I was not ready for otherwise. But I had to talk to her.
I took a deep breath and opened my mouth, with no idea of what sort of clumsy, stupid, fatuous dumbbell thing I was about to say to her. It didn’t matter; just noise, anything to see that smile again.
“Thanks,” rumbled the rusty voice of the big guy on my other side. “Thanks for switching seats. Every now and then I get like that. A little panicky. Just a little. I appreciate it. Usually it’s just when we’re not moving, you know? Something about just sitting there on the runway, I start to picture a big bull’s-eye on top of the plane. I mean, if something went wrong, like another plane coming in on top of us or a fire or a”—he lowered his voice and almost whispered the word—“bomb, I mean we’d be stuck here. They don’t want you to think about it, but hey, no way we could all get off this thing if it was burning. No way. Anyhow.”
He stuck a large soft hand in front of my face. I stared at it stupidly for a long second, disoriented at being jerked back to such a strange place, to such an improbable monologue. He smiled and gave a little dip to his hand to let me know what he had in mind and, instead of strangling him for interrupting, I shook the hand.
“Jordan Loomis,” he said. “I’m an actor. Going back home, back to L.A. Just wrapped ten days on the new Segall flick they’re shooting here. Not a big part, but hey—I think it’ll get noticed. It was pretty right for me. Kind of thing I do well, you know? Sort of second heavy is the technical term. You know, the guy who stands behind the featured villain and cracks his knuckles.” He cracked his knuckles for me and gave me a mean little leer. Then he laughed. “Like that. Seen me before? I was in ‘Evil Breeze’ last year.” He saw my stupid expression. “The miniseries. You didn’t see it? Incredible. It got like a forty share. You don’t watch TV? I don’t blame you. Where you from?”
I stared at him. In spite of wanting to kill him for interrupting, I couldn’t see any harm in the guy. He was even trying not to sweat on me. On the other hand, I could still see that old-coin profile out of the corner of my eye. She was turned to the window, obviously listening, a small smile teasing the side of her mouth. The smile was wonderful, but slightly wicked, like the smile of the Roman senator’s daughter when she sees the face of a sassy Christian as the lions come into the arena.
“Excuse me,” I said to the actor. I turned towards the face at the window. “Pardon me, ma’am,” I said to the woman, dropping my voice and sounding as much like Gary Cooper
The hands alone are naked. They can tell you all you need to know about the person they’re attached to. Long red nails and chubby knuckles? A bonbon eater, stay away. Stubby, chewed-off nails and twitching fingers? A nervous wreck, a bed-wetter, a neurotic. If you know what to look for, you’ll never be surprised. Other features might be more seductive, but only the hands tell the truth.
This woman’s hands looked strong. They were lined and the nails were neat; not painted, but glossy with health, trimmed to a useful length. Like that impossible neck, the hands were close to perfect.
I looked up at her profile again. She had turned away to look out the window, and in turning had caused a tendon to stand out on her neck. It ran in a graceful curve up from her shoulder and into the halo of her hair, accenting unnecessarily the unbearable delicacy of her neck. At the corner of her mouth I could see a very slight smile playing on her full lips.
I felt two steps back from the grave for the first time in eighteen months. I had to speak. If she was a Twinkie I needed to know, and fast, because otherwise—I couldn’t say. I was not ready for otherwise. But I had to talk to her.
I took a deep breath and opened my mouth, with no idea of what sort of clumsy, stupid, fatuous dumbbell thing I was about to say to her. It didn’t matter; just noise, anything to see that smile again.
“Thanks,” rumbled the rusty voice of the big guy on my other side. “Thanks for switching seats. Every now and then I get like that. A little panicky. Just a little. I appreciate it. Usually it’s just when we’re not moving, you know? Something about just sitting there on the runway, I start to picture a big bull’s-eye on top of the plane. I mean, if something went wrong, like another plane coming in on top of us or a fire or a”—he lowered his voice and almost whispered the word—“bomb, I mean we’d be stuck here. They don’t want you to think about it, but hey, no way we could all get off this thing if it was burning. No way. Anyhow.”
He stuck a large soft hand in front of my face. I stared at it stupidly for a long second, disoriented at being jerked back to such a strange place, to such an improbable monologue. He smiled and gave a little dip to his hand to let me know what he had in mind and, instead of strangling him for interrupting, I shook the hand.
“Jordan Loomis,” he said. “I’m an actor. Going back home, back to L.A. Just wrapped ten days on the new Segall flick they’re shooting here. Not a big part, but hey—I think it’ll get noticed. It was pretty right for me. Kind of thing I do well, you know? Sort of second heavy is the technical term. You know, the guy who stands behind the featured villain and cracks his knuckles.” He cracked his knuckles for me and gave me a mean little leer. Then he laughed. “Like that. Seen me before? I was in ‘Evil Breeze’ last year.” He saw my stupid expression. “The miniseries. You didn’t see it? Incredible. It got like a forty share. You don’t watch TV? I don’t blame you. Where you from?”
I stared at him. In spite of wanting to kill him for interrupting, I couldn’t see any harm in the guy. He was even trying not to sweat on me. On the other hand, I could still see that old-coin profile out of the corner of my eye. She was turned to the window, obviously listening, a small smile teasing the side of her mouth. The smile was wonderful, but slightly wicked, like the smile of the Roman senator’s daughter when she sees the face of a sassy Christian as the lions come into the arena.
“Excuse me,” I said to the actor. I turned towards the face at the window. “Pardon me, ma’am,” I said to the woman, dropping my voice and sounding as much like Gary Cooper
Similar Books
