you were giving me directions with dish soap clinging to your fingers

ten feet from unseasonably bitter wind

and all of a sudden i was reminded of those mornings

when the house was so cold my nose was numb when it was time to get up for school

and how much my body craved the warmth of blankets and affection.

you never realized how much i would remember your hands,

so befitting an art museum employee,

which you are despite only working the small coffee bar with a severe closing time,

and i wonder how much it matters that i have yet to stop imagining the way the suds decorated your knuckles and the tops of your hands like jewelry,

and how i immediately pictured those same hands on piano keys after work with no sense of rhythm but every possible gram of soul imaginable.

i didnt notice all of this because i found you undeniably attractive and i wanted to ask you to dinner in Dupont Circle that very minute

but because the tone of your eyes told me to notice everything else.

i never got your name but i understood

in those moments of conversation over the counter that you had more passion than the burbling foam maker at the starbucks down the street,

and the kindness in your voice spoke volumes.