More than a fistful of sky

The anklets slip off the moment he touches them. They always went even before he called. He never called.

He plays with my toe ring. I wince a little when he finally manages to remove it. There is always reluctance in parting.

He's got the most beautiful fingers I've ever seen. The long stalks that held pencils, pens, paint brushes, cigarettes and women among others. Cigarettes didn't suit him some years ago. They now do.

Women. It was a singular thing in his life before. The past never is really past. I always look back.

Tell me about her. And her. And her. And every one of them. 8 years of women to catch up with.

The numbers and name roll off his tongue.

Really? So many?, I never ask.

And the sex?

Its always been interesting. Its different... different women different times and same woman different times.

Oh.

Tell me more.

We never had secrets. And when we finally did, they ate us up. Secrets not shared become bigger than you and they gobble you up.

It was a train journey. The flimsy curtains showed more than they covered. But one hoped they covered more. Train seats aren't really meant for two to lie. And in that lay all the fun.

He stops abruptly. He stretches his hands towards me.

His fingers that unhooked many layers off many women. His fingers that trembled when they wrote his address on a book I still have saved. Fingers that caught a handful of sky, more sky than my small ones ever could. They're still as beautiful.

I'd lent out what was mine.

I take them. Back.