Hands

"Were your hands always like that?" She murmured, doing her best to not stare. Dry-looking, it was hardly surprising given the winter chill.

No: the problem was that those hands looked far too scale-like. As though a reptile's skin was being stretched on-top of those hands. Cracked, an angry pink, and more lines than she dared to count.

"Kinnah." Was the lisp always so pronounced? Then again, with a broken nose... "Alwayth been kinnah like'a dith."

It was at this point she took to stirring her coffee again. Not warm, not cool, kind of...'just-was'. Another apology for the nose, and another shake of the head.

And if they hadn't tried to jump-scare her, that wouldn't have happened. Spilled milk could still spoil, if it wasn't cleaned up.

If there was anything she would wish, it would be for the café they'd holed themselves up in to be bustling with noise. Clanking cutlery, glasses tinkling, heck, even music would be welcomed at this point. The homely coffee bistro was anything but, as it was still late morning, but not quite noon yet. No rushes to come or to count on.

The silence was greater than the pink elephant in their small table-space. And she felt close to panicking from the tension.

"Tho," she looked up, eyes focusing on their nose to avoid dark pupils. "Dith wathn't what you'th ethpecting huh?"

"You were being creepy."

"Yeth, I kinnah wath." A chortle bubbled out, and she was tempted to grin--ever so slightly. "Kinnah like'a blind date, twoo."

Meeting an internet friend in their hometown, just because she was passing through? "Sure."

"You'th know, you'th a lot different from what I'th thought you'th look. Kinda more thin-ith."

"And you're at a loss of words." She snapped back, the grin-feeling threatening her more by the second. "What happened to the great poet of NY?"

"On vacation, gimme'th a break." A hand moved off their broken nose, and a few short snorts sent the air around the nostrils whistling. "Bit bettah dough."

Beating her to another apology. Again. She leaned back, feeling a tingle on the in-perceivable hairs of her skin. Should she? Or should she wait...

"Do we talk about it?"

A sigh. Silence. Then a shrug.

"Maybeh later-th."