It wasn’t often that Sophie had the time to do her nails. When she did sit down with her manicure set, it took eons. Not a simple ten minutes of filing, trimming, and a quick coat of polish, oh no. It would first start with gentle exfoliation, until her skin was as smooth as pressed winter snow, slightly pink. Then she’d squirt a bit of lotion onto the back of her hand, and using the same circular motions from before, massage it into her skin.
One thing she never did was look at the hands in question. She had ugly hands. Her fingers were rectangular in shape, as wide on top as they were on the bottom. A small spattering of downy blonde hairs would call attention to the square shape of her palm as the hairs caught the light. Only men had hair on their hands. Even rings, with oval cut stones to draw out the curves of her digits did not help one bit. A callous on her right ring finger bulged upward from writing, a callous that wouldn't disappear no matter how much she exfoliated or pumiced. It was tough as a weed.
She was cursed with terrible cuticles as well; they would always splinter up and break, harden, swell up and get half-infected. Then her fingertips would be swollen, red, tender, and even uglier than before. Her nails weren’t elegant either, and without polish, she thought they looked downright nasty. The shape was never even, and no matter how much she cleaned them, they would always be grubby. There was nothing delicate about her hands, from her callouses to her too-wide fingers. Scars littered all over, cuts long healed that left raised white lines.
In her brother’s study, a dusty fourth floor attic with a beautiful canal view in Amsterdam, she enjoyed the little-seen sunlight streaming in from the windows. The antique glass wasn’t entirely transparent, but it only reminded her of days gone by. It was quaint. Idly, she watched the Dutchmen below in their business on the streets. No longer did the winters come as early, when the winter celebration of Sinterklaas in December was oftenaccompanied by sleet-slick brick streets . Frozen canals and snow-covered trees were a thing of the past. Now, the trees were gaunt skeletons of their former selves, and the lop-sided bricks of the streets lay bare.
“Zie de maan schijnt door de bomen... Makkers staakt uw wild geraas,” Sophie softly sung.
Sinterklaas always put her brother in a good mood. He’d bake his little- indulged-in sweets and crack jokes. Not that those were funny, but still. Sometimes, he’d even start a conversation himself. It was only for that that she would say winter was his favorite season. He was one of the few who found delight in snow, and the cold that accompanied it. Wool and Stijn went together like China and silks. Stijn’s cold personality was perfectly accompanied by frost. He was in his element when others waited for spring.
Right now, he was drawing. It was such a shame he barely indulged in the arts anymore, when he was so talented. He barely indulged in anything. His halls were decked with his artworks from his brief stint in art school and from his works over the years. But with every passing year, less paintings were added. Maybe he didn't have time. Sophie didn't really know. It was rare for her to visit him. Their relations had always been rocky and tense for as long as she could remember. His worrying and fretting over her were tiring, and his love was suffocating.
Her eyes, more hazel than green, were drawn to his hands. They were milky pale, summer’s sun having vanished long ago. Not that Stijn would enjoy
it. He was always busy, and his skin showed it. The same downy hair covered his hands, coarser, but just as straight. It was unfair. Imperfections made a man, while they ruined a woman. When they’d been younger, she never felt that she had to compete with him for anything. She was the one that had the upper hand, as her father’s favorite and as the most successful. Her grades had been better, and she effortlessly had strings of friends. Stijn struggled on every level.
The tendons rippled as his hand moved over the paper. While her palm was a square, his was an elongated parallelogram. His fingers were so long, and seemed to go on forever. Like his legs, which were clad in bright red pants. Bold, she half-snickered. He dressed so strangely. But then his nails, those perfect seashell pink nails with clear white nail beds – completely wasted on him. Even though he painted, his hands remained spotless. It was a mystery to her. He gardened too, but whenever Sophie felt his touch, his hands were as soft as her flannel pajama pants.
He was almost handsome if you looked at him like this. She never found him attractive, but when he was like this – in his element – she could easily imagine how he had managed his many conquests back in the day. It was all in those hands. His infuriatingly perfect hands. Sighing melancholically, she first looked at hers, and then back at her sibling's.
“Eerlijk zullen we alles delen,” Stijn had continued without her noticing, his baritone the complete opposite of her own voice.
Fair we shall share everything. What a complete and utter lie.