Hands were the hardest for Angel. He had spent centuries rendering hands of the dead–-futility easier to replicate.
Couldn’t say when he started again. Maybe when he noticed that Spike, bodiless, never knew what to do with his. They either flapped wildly or scurried back inside that duster.
“What’s up with the hands?”
“Could use a fag is all.”
Tried to capture Spike’s hands from memory. Couldn’t get it right. Better if they grasped something. Tried cudgels, cigarettes--even another hand. Liked the hand best, kept that one.
Only later did Angel realize that the hand Spike held was his.
Just got back from skating practice. So I'm wired-tired. We're gearing up for the new season, so we're back to the late night practices. Hey, you can't beat cheap ice.
I'm watching a documentary on Russian marriage agencies at the same time. Of course they're focusing on young, beautiful Russian women marrying older American men. Surprise.