Her Hands Could Not Have Guessed She was working the night in her hands like dough through her fingers, the only way to negotiate the boredom of endless counters and tables to be wiped, the steady flow of faces under artificial light. Many were gaunt and haunted. Maybe they sought solace in her white hands pouring coffee. His muscles rippling, sore from his eight hours, he recognized her from the undersides of his dreams. How could this woman seem beautiful? He was beautiful and knew it. He could have anyone; he didn't need to stoop, yet here she was, fat, in a huge blue skirt, rolling with sweat, her mind half-present and still she inspired his body to jump from him. He sat down to order and worship her, his eyes on her hands, her only part left slender. Her hands had a mind of their own. They didn't know whether to kill her or leave her alone. They resented the work she forced, being cut and burned, never earning the desire they deserved, never being loved the way they should be loved. Her hands could not have guessed how many nights how many worn-thin, weary men stayed awake only to gaze at lithe fingers like dancers pirouette through paces bringing biscuits, ham, eggs.