The DVD whirs and hums at the movie begins and i I slip my wedding ring off and place it, with a metallic ring, on the faux-wood surface of my desk. This is not ritual, but practical, as the lotion at the end dulls the platinum grooves that define and highlight my ring. Once dry, one ready, the ring will return. It always does.
My left hand is first, always. The sharp metal tips digs deep beneath the nails to remove and clean. When I am in the pool, my shoulders pulling long strokes through the water, ,or after in the Jacuzzi, my back against the jets, they come out clean. Today there was no gym, no water, no bright white tips to show that i am not like him.
The metal gouges deep and strips out the debris of carbon-based life. Build-ups of dust, oil, flakes from her scalp embedded as long red marks are left behind. I smile as i recollect what else might be there, what evidence of lust have I collected that is so easily scraped out by a 99-cent kit.
The emery board drags lightly back and forth, defying those who tell me to go only one way, but they must be joking, To go one way leaves an edge as sharp as a blade, and blades cut tender skin. I shape and round the tip, paying attention to the corners, smoothing them, making them fit perfectly.
My hands stop moving and settle softly on the desk. She needs the money yet her guardian refuses her every argument, "But it's mine" she cries as he stands behind her in the darkened, forcing his hand down her shirt by force of authority only. I stare entranced by the scene, his belt buckle jingles quietly as he spin her chair around and tells her that she will get her money when he trusts her. With a single move he impales her throat and repeats his viscous mantra, "Can I trust you?"
Heart beating, the scene changes and I snap too and move along.
The buffer block comes next, blue, grey, white. Countless circles, strokes, rubbing, softening, smoothing, getting my nail to a high gloss shine. And then, the right.
More clumsily done with the left hand in charge, I repeat the process 5 times, 20 touches, cleaned, shaped, buffed, buffed, and buffed again. I run them against my cheek, high on the cheek, on the soft skin, working and reworking until I feel no snag, until I can feel no edges, no points, hooks, or interruptions.
Two paper towels are laid down, two drop of oil are gently spread to harden and protect each nail. First the left, and then, holding the small bottle awkwardly. squeezing the first drop out and letting capillary action draw out the next, they shine with thick liquid. Again focused on the film it plays forwards in Swedish and I read my way through.
5, 6, 7 minutes, now the lotion. With the oil dry, a generous dollop fills my palms and I moisturize from elbow to fingertip and I work it in, diligently searching for a stray nail, an un-softened curve, a tip too sharp, or and edge, surface, or crack too rough. I feel a small line on my hand and pick up the clippers to remove the offending hang-nail. More lotion to sooth the cut, fragrant, not too girly, a strong scent. I turn my attention back to the screen, resting the heel of my hand on the spotted paper towel, and wait for it to soak in, settle, and do it's work.
The phone rings once. Caller ID tells me all I need to know. My towels clean off the unabsorbed lotion from my hands and are dropped into the wastebasket. The cool air of the hallway tingles on my skin as i make my way. Her assistant greets me with a silent smile and knocks once on the door.
"Yes" is softly heard, and the door is open.
She is, as agreed on top of her desk, her $300 shoes are still on, but nothing else.
"Are your fingers ready for me?"
"Yes mistress."
"So let's begin....."
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I did my nails today while watching "The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo". While my routine isn't retualized, I began to imagine that it was.....
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