Like the last one, but this one is about hands.
To my right, her hand sits lightly on her thigh. Her fingers lay gently, like a queen elegantly crossing her ankles.. The small, slender hand seems almost like it will collapse under the weight of the diamond ring on her left ring finger. She's married. Her nails have a soft sheen and even shape; either she's recently had a manicure or she has never done a hard days work in her life. Her hands do not move to smooth down her perfectly pressed skirt, or to tuck a non-existent strand silky blonde hair back into it's elegant up-do. In fact, they are so still that it's almost hard to believe that beneath the pale, thin layer of skin, human blood flows through her veins.
His hand is rough and calloused, and his knuckles give the appearance of having been cracked many, many times. The oil filled cracks on his hands make me think he is a mechanic of some sort. He slowly clenches and unclenches his fist; with each flex, the veins on his forearm jump out, then settle back down. He has wide fingernails, some cracked in places. There is dirt and oil under them, and he wears no jewelry. He's tan, and slightly sun burnt, and he occasionally reaches down the bury his fingers in the coarse fur of the dog sitting at his feet.
To my left the girl's hands are shaking. Her purple nail polish is chipped, and it looks like she didn't bother to take off the first chipped coat before attempting to paint over it. Her ragged cuticles give the impression that her hand as made one too many nervous trips to her mouth. She is jittery, and her hands tap out some rhythm on the side of her scabbed knee. The uneven nail tips leave small half-moon imprints in her skin, but she doesn't seem to notice. She occasionally runs them through her dark hair; she is attempting to neaten it, but it's really just making it worse.
The last set of hands belong to a girl sitting across from me. She is a sharp contrast from both the innocent, nervous girl to my left and the calm, elegant woman to my right. Her nails are blood red, and sharp. Her ring is a cheap imitation of the real diamond on the other girl's hand. She tugs nervously on her too short skirt and fiddles with the holes of her fishnet stockings. Her fingers dart up and down her leg; her touch seems very light. Thin—too thin, almost skeletal—fingers have the appearance of having dipped into a wallet or two her in her life. The way they caress whatever they touch, automatically, unfeelingly…I know what she does for a living already, and it breaks my heart.