“My hand is old!”
“What?” my husband shouted back from our bedroom.
“My hand. It’s old!” I was lying on the sofa with an ice pack on my lower back. My sciatica had been creeping up on me for a week.
“What are you talking about?” He had given up the other room and now looked down at me over the couch, folding a bath towel. I would never have pegged him as someone who liked doing laundry, but then we bought a washer-dryer and I can hardly get him to stop.
“I have liver spots on my hand. I’m thirty-seven years old and I have liver spots.” Small brown spots flecked the part of my hand at nexus of the wrist, thumb and pointing finger.
“You do not have liver spots.”
He took up my hand and flipped it one way and then the other.
“Oh. Yeah. Those are liver spots.” With that he dropped it. “You can get those lasered off.”
That last sentence trailed off as he walked away. His reaction wasn’t unfriendly, just efficient.
Sunday, February 3, 2008
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