Man-hand, I thought, of the woman driving the van idling at the light next to me. The stubby-fingered, short-nailed hand scratching her cheek too masculine for her delicate, feminine features, it did not match the manicured one resting atop the wheel. The stretched out pianist fingers, knuckles bulging with arthritis beyond her smooth cheek’s years, extended then curled, extended then curled in time to whatever music played on her radio.
More beautiful than her hands was her face, which I couldn’t explain, nor could I explain the mismatch. This was one of those experiences I would have forgotten, except that when the light changed, the hand on her cheek moved away, toward the passenger window; it was at the end of one arm of a man who was folded into her body. She frowned and said something. He quickly folded back into her.
I followed the van to a big-box home improvement store, then followed her in and to the aisle full of glues, putties, scrapers, pastes, solder, and grout. I hid behind an endcap of buckets and trashcans and watched her unfold her parts: that man who gave her an arm and hand; an elderly woman who was the other hand; two young, virginal women who each gave her a perky breast; a male model mostly photographed in sepia provided her abs; two runners, one of each gender, bestowed beneath her torso a leg each. The handle of one bucket was caught on the buckle of my watchband, and a plastic stack of them bounced and scudded across the floor as I ran.
What if she is a metaphor for our identities, I asked my wife over gnocchi, the way we are all made up of parts, anima and whatever, all Jungian?
It is not that way, my wife said. I had always admired her hands, the way she moved, but wondered if the one holding the fork and one holding the knife were matches. Before bed, washing my face, I thought my own eyes didn’t look symmetrical, one too narrow, the colors so off.
Seven people and her head, so eight total? my wife asked. At least, I said. Eight that I saw. What about her lungs, her heart, kidneys, liver? Would those people be inside out? she asked. And: What kind of van did you say it was?
When I told her the model she said, that is not a minivan, it is full-sized.
