writeren
Her hands were exquisite. Painter's hands. Looked like they'd been carved with a potter's needle almost. Cracked and creased and molded with age and experience. But nothing so beautiful I'd ever seen. And the colors, oh the colors. Reds and Oranges and Blues and Greens of life and love, forever melted into her skin. Been there too long to wash out.
Out of town, that's what his answering machine said. Gone for a few days call you back later. How could he just say that? What if this was an emergency. This is an emergency.