Inside is a charcoal sketch on thick, textured paper. It is a drawing of a pair of hands—long, elegant, with unpainted nails and faint scars on the knuckles. The hands are cupped together, holding nothing, but they seem to be holding everything —the weight of a life, the heat of a stage, the memory of a banana grove.
“You built things,” he says.
Fiona is quiet for a long time. The neon light outside flickers—pink, blue, green—painting her face in slow, rhythmic waves. Ladyboy Fiona
Oliver says nothing.
“For Fiona. The soul is in the hands. – Oliver, Bristol.” Inside is a charcoal sketch on thick, textured paper