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October 10, 2010
Her hands were never still. Even in her sleep, her fingers twitched. She was always absently tapping on a table, fiddling with her hair, twisting shreds of paper into spirals. When she was born, the nurse looked at her tiny hands and declared she had a musician's fingers.

Of all the women he had loved, it was her fingers that he remembered--tracing the lines of his face, his shoulders, scratching gently at his scalp. He could still remember the ghostly touch of her hands memorizing the geometry of freckles on his skin.

It was her hands he missed most.