Bloomsbury

I think I have damaged the tiny veins under the skin of my hands. Cold hands constantly plunged into hot water lead to great bloomings of shrunken constricted veins, some going into shock with the sudden change in temperature. The skin on my hand turns bright red in angry patches and I cannot touch hot water without feeling slight jolts of pain emitting from a deeper layer of my skin. Little bumps raise up in protest, stop doing that, they say. It hurts.

But I keep doing it anyway because hot water in a cold foreign country is one of the consistent few pleasures that life has accorded me. I apply hand cream over the bright red skin, in hopes of soothing it. My hands now smell of cranberries. As I run my fingers over the other hand, rubbing in cream, I remember the other hands that once caressed it.

I continue washing my hands in hot water and watching my skin bloom.