Palm to Palm
She paints beauty into strangers’ hands. Hers stay bare, holding stories no one asks to hear.
Her hands are beautiful,
not by birth—
by acetone baptisms,
by nights scrubbing war from cuticles.
Cracked, the clients whisper,
as she paints Coral Dream over their bitten shame.
Her knuckles know the math:
$12/hour = 3 Vietnamese syllables swallowed per minute.
She holds Fort Lauderdale’s palms open—
Baptist wives, cruise ship girls,
their skin smelling of sunscreen and secrets.
No one holds her Tet envelopes,
stained with monomer ghosts.
"Lighter?" She dips her brush again,
mixes polish with 2am rice fumes.
The boss counts tips in Vietnamese:
Mười, hai mươi, khốn nạn...
Her knees lock like salon chairs.
Beauty is her job, yes—
but watch her slice tape off roll-on glitter:
blade steady as a Saigon monsoon,
each flick a silent đấu tranh
Behind every flawless nail is a hand that shakes only when no one’s looking.
About the Creator
Eric Q Feng
Traveler, storyteller, consultant, and new pickleball enthusiast sharing adventures and lessons along the way.
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Comments (1)
Beautiful, I could feel so much emotion here.