10 Fingers

I could fill journals and journals with our stories. Some grandchild of mine will find those battered, inked pages a lifetime from now and wonder who you are. That's not Grandpa.

Of all those stories though, there's one I often like to play on repeat behind my eyelids. It's not so much a story less beginning, middle and end as just a moment, a moment when I drowned in your big brown eyes and wanted, or needed even, nothing more than to just be within arm's reach of you.

It's that time you painted my nails.

We weren't drunk. Drunk on joy, maybe. But otherwise in our supposedly right minds, just absurdly happy to be where we were with each other. The sun had fallen for the night, but the important part is that there was sun there. And warmth. And incomparable company. And a week with no work. And so, so, so many good times ahead.

"You wanna paint my nails?" sounds like one of those dumb questions I often asked you, one that you usually ignored. You surprised me with enthusiasm this time though, focusing so hard with each brushstroke, even caring to apply a second coat.

I have to paint my own nails now.