I look obsessively at other people’s hands. Today I saw a man in the Paris underground. The skin of his hands looked like fragile crumpled paper. It was light brown. His fingernails where white and clean. His hands were folded on top of his bag. I could not resist staring at his hands; they were so beautiful.
I exited at Saint Philippe du Roule. I saw an old woman searching for something in a garbage bin. She was wearing a long coat decorated with illustrations of reindeer made with what looked like golden thread. Her coat fascinated me and so I slowed my pace down to take a closer look at her. She was wearing red lipstick and her fingernails were painted red. Two scarves were draped elegantly around her neck and, as a necklace, she wore a small hand-knitted flower on a piece of string. This woman once had another identity; her clothes revealed traces of the past.