Lightning Field

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Her hands arewhite and long and lithe.They make elusive, fleeting frames — flirtations of shapes, really — on anything they touch. Anything in the world. I would follow those hands out to the desert. I would. I would watch them on the black leather curve of the steering wheel. I would watch them light a cigarette with the glowing car lighter after it made a low pop and smelled vaguely of burnt food. And I would watch them as she gestured when she spoke, as if she were weighing air or beckoning someone near. At times I notice her watching her own hands, admiring their white elegant angles and delicately draped bones. When I notice her watching her own hands, I look away, my eyes shy from shame.

“Mina,” she says, and I like it when she says my name and leaves it there hanging, like a statement, or barks it, “Mina,” like an order.

“Leave everything,” she says. “The one thing you can’t leave behind is the thing you absolutely must.”

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