What the body knows

Through the window,

her hands moved without thinking—

each clove separated,

the papery skin

peeled away in long strips

that fell like something discarded

but necessary.

Twenty minutes maybe,

just her hands and the garlic,

no music, no phone,

just the small sound

of her thumbnail

working under the skin.

I watched longer than I should have,

the way her fingers knew

exactly where to grip,

where to press,

where to let go.

No hesitation.

No moment of checking

if she was doing it right.

Her body had learned

something mine hadn't—

that some work doesn't require

your attention,

that the hands can be trusted

to finish what they started

while the mind goes

somewhere else entirely.

I turned away before she looked up.