Mexican hands

Drove up North to see a friend. He is building a mansion for a manager of a well known company I will not mention. My friend was running late while I bumped into the soon to be owner guy and we spoke for twenty minutes. Gave him few advises on interior which he thanked me for two days later, pissing off my friend a little, it meant more headache for him. I will buy him a dinner and he will be OK because the end result will be spectacular.
But the day I was waiting for him, crew of Mexicans was finishing concrete driveway. One man was washing his hands in the stream of water from a garden hose but kept getting some water on his shoes and pants.
I came up to him, took the hose to hold it for him, sat on the stairs they have poured yesterday. Sun was rising behind him. I saw more of a silhouette of him than any details with only his hands being lit up by the morning rays.
He had real man hands, with muscles sculpted and underlined with big veins. Others have just finished and came up to me as well. We exchanged few words in Spanish, laughed and I watched them wash their hands, one after another while holding the hose for them. Everyday you are supposed to do it. Little acts of kindness to others. What did I do this week?
Sandwich for the black girl. Moved disabled car with this Puerto Rican kid out of  busy street to the side, his two boys in the back watching the gringo working with their father, made an Arab woman laugh at fast food place till she pretty much described her whole life to me. A very brave girl with daughter at UIC and proud of her, dreaming through her success.
Their hands were hands of creators, people who use hands for more than to put coffee and croissant in their mouth while performing simple tasks on the computers for mega prisons, physical and mental, of big corporations.
So hands became the theme in the morning and it reminded me how she used to kiss mine – her fetish. Then after we broke up, which I have caused on purpose, I saw her kiss hand of another man, in a restaurant, even older than me and it made me sick. I left before she could notice me. Hands.
Megan, the German prostitute, nineteen years old I went crazy about last time I went crazy about someone, which was few years back,  she loved my hands.
-men in Florida do not have hands like that.
She would hold my right hand with both of hers:
– you can put it in me, all of it.Please.
And I would, with her help.
I lost interest in her after she kept coming with the other girl. I didn’t like the other girl even though she was beautiful. I didn’t like to share Megan. I bought a house in Indiana on the main street in a nice town close to Chicago. Hoped to open up a business just for her, to get her out of Florida and away from what she was doing. Before it materialized she got pregnant with one of her clients, started taking some pills to abort the kid. Lost track of her. I didn’t see it coming. They put the house on a demolition list, would not let me get the permit. My friend has arranged for me to meet the mayor but he bailed out in the last minute. House got demolished. Everything inside was stolen by the demolition company owner. Including the fireplace, towering fireplace I was going to install in the middle of her bedroom. Hand of god, I guess.