Monday, May 9, 2011

Pick one, any one.

“Why do you ask me such questions?”

“To find out if you know.”

“Know what?”

“Know which hand to choose.”

“What’s in the right one?”

“Just - choose.”

She motioned for the left, so I pulled it closer to my torso, just to keep her guessing, Her hand hesitated in mid-air like a helicopter caught in the wind. The wind died down, and her hand hovered over, and then fell on, the three middle knuckles of my right.

I opened my palm. Inside was a rock. One I’d thrifted from the Luxembourg Gardens on our trip there together two years earlier. She smiled, her irreverent and irrelevant smile. I already knew she’d be happy.

“Why did you make me question?”

“Why would you want the answer? You know which hand I hold things in, even foreign rocks.”