The nails gleamed, the hand, impossibly small and delicate, the extended arm, slender. I held it like you would fine china, mindful that it could drop and noisily shatter into a thousand pieces. Time will stop. He will stop considering the cute blue and white thermos that keeps hot things hot and cold things cold. She will put the wok down and look up. I will replay it again and again in my mind. Everyone will look, some blankly, some with open disapproval. No running away like I did before.
Suddenly, everyone resumed their motions. I spun the hand, connected to the arm, connected to the body. I nodded my head politely and moved on.