He never uses the hand dryer when there's paper towel, but for the past two days, there hasn't been any, so he's been forced to stick his hands under the cold tube of air and wave them around, feeling like someone's grandma is blowing on his fingers. He tries to get it over with as quickly as possible.
But today some neophyte has twisted the silver dryer head up so that it's facing the ceiling, perfect for drying hair. It was probably Wilson.
Bits of rust crumble off as he wrenches it back his way. The veins in his left hand bulge for a moment and he can see the silvering tributaries that wind away from the main veins, how there are more than he remembered, how the skin packaging them is like rice paper. He takes a finger and presses on the thickest one. It doesn't hurt, but the pressure is enough to be uncomfortable.
He hasn't asked him to, but that night Wilson kisses each of the fingers on that hand and takes each one individually into his mouth. Tonight he's thankful for the heavy pump of red through the tips of his fingers, as he plays cadences and arpeggios on the chest of the man beside him, pleased that the bumps of textures of Wilson's skin are as familiar as this routine is beginning to be.