I watch the shadow of his hand on the wall. In the candlelight, the shadow is even more thin and graceful than the real thing. I've only a vague idea of what he's talking about, something about music.
One hand is open, palm up, fingers just slightly curled, as if in supplication. Then it suddenly flips over. He's trying to illustrate some point, and he extends his arm, index and middle fingers stretched out. The hand's shadow hits the shadow of my shoulder, almost as though he's touching me. He's not.
A thousand times a day he almost caresses me.