She attended the fundraiser, alone, last evening.
She willingly inserts herself into the room. A room filled with generosity, like-minded givers. And men. Men wearing suits. Some step aside, unable to meet her eyes, some engage with a handshake and kind words. Hers is a familiar and welcoming face, heart open to a good cause and an attitude inspiring dancing even in cerebral settings.
She knows he would have been proud to have been by her side, with her, present, through the long evening, hand on the small of her back, as she works the room, easily taking over the place.
She scans the male scenery, touching some on the shoulder, all the while glancing at fingertips, and the curve of the palm, the bend in the thumb, breathing.
It is always the same, the natural order of her mind, to taste with her eyes the hands. Hands with long fingers, raised veins roping across the backs, the tendons flexing, then taut, hands she has learned are skilled in conversing without words. These drive her to distraction.
She is drawn to one male who silently raises glass, in toast fashion, sharing his beautiful fingers wrapped around the bowl, confidently allowing his smile to reach his eyes when she braces herself, lifts her chin, and accepts his appraising attention.
He is the one she allows to take her in, standing taller as his eyes sweep downward, from throat to hip, and she knows his gaze lingers on the back of her neck, as she turns away, a measured smile upon her lips, held in check, but then released as she transforms it into laughter and idle banter, the compliment safely absorbed to her core, amidst the polite chatter and din.
She is alone, and his hands feed her mind.
# for Reticent Mental Property