It's true, I don't work my hands.

*Her touch is so soft and pleasant that he closes his eyes for a second. But he knows that her hand was damaged during a transformation some years back, and poorly treated; it was in the file. He wonders if the scar is still there, or if it simply blends in with the other lines in her palm.*

If you look here--my life line is short but deep. I'll die young, according to this.

May I read yours?