New Jeanland

There is something unfair
about a man with good hands.

Not beautiful hands, necessarily.
Useful ones.

Hands that know
how to open a stubborn jar,
fix something without announcing it,
cut an apple cleanly,
hold a glass
with easy purpose.

Sleeves pushed back
without ceremony.
The careful knot
of a loosened tie.

His thumb
dragging absently
along the rim of a glass
while he listens.

I am listening too.
Mostly.

The shape of his wrist.
The veins in his forearm.
The easy certainty
with which he reaches
for whatever needs doing.

I have always had
a weakness for competence.

Which sounds respectable
until he rolls his sleeves
one turn higher
and suddenly
my mouth is parched
and I have forgotten
what he was saying.

Still,
I say nothing.

He keeps talking.

I take another drink
and watch his hands
reach for the bottle,
steady and unhurried,
while I make a serious effort
to remember
what we were talking about.