Hands

Hands

Her left hand rested on the counter. The nails were carefully manicured, the french tips just longer than the tips of her fingers. Heavy creases, blue veins and tendons stood out across the back of her hand, showing a life lived longer than her face showed.

She tapped her fingers, waiting for the attendant. “I could be in Siberia for all the attention I get round here.”

“It’s a long queue today. Longer than yesterday. We could freeze waiting out in the cold like this.” The old man standing behind her huddled further into his coat.

“No Ma’am,” the attendant looked up. “We don’t exchange Siberian dollars here.”

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