His face was angular, framed by high cheekbones, almost lady-like eyelashes and a cute little button of a nose. But what immediately impressed me were his fingers. They were very long and elegant, the nails trimmed and buffed to perfect crescents at the tips. Fingers fit for typing, or playing the piano.Or gripping a cock.He asked if he could help me and I thought I detected a note of desperate gratitude in his voice. Was he really that starved for business? How disappointed he would be when he found out I merely wanted a battery for my watch.Except he wasn’t. He seemed more than eager, and brought me around to another display case where the batteries were stored. I got a chance to size up his body once he got from behind the counter, but I couldn’t see much. He was wearing a suit and that concealed all.I gave him my watch and he expertly popped off the back and set about removing the thin disk of a battery. I was embarrassed by how dirty the watch was; when he took off the backing a. I’d like to be glad she’s over me. Oh, I am. I am. I’m so goddamned, fucking glad. * * * * * The cello was a big part of whatever it was we had. She was playing it the first time I saw her, in one of those anonymous string quartets at a Friday evening reception in Brookline. She wasn’t special. Another musician. Of course she was dressed all in black except the white blouse: black skirt, black tie, black stockings, black shoes. She wore a tiny, ruby pendant on a fine gold chain. They were the only things of color about her. She herself is pale. She had no makeup. Oh there were nice touches. The clothing set her skin off well. So did her dark brown hair—it was parted in the middle, and braided down her back almost to her waist. A slight imperfection in her nose made her face almost perfect. So she was lovely, sure, but I wasn’t interested in another Emily. An Emily. Anyone could spot them, at least anyone from New England. A woman who channels Emily Dickinson. They’re everywhere. It.
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