“Why do you ask me such questions?”
“To find out if you know.”
“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.”