The woman inspects her hand. She holds it away from her face and looks at it as if it does not quite belong to her, as if its history is something she had read. Thirty-two years before the hand had gone into her mouth regularly. Sixteen years before, it had unbuckled the belt of a young man who was watching television nervously in the basement of her parents’ home. Eight years before, it had enveloped the tiny hand of her son as he put his lips around her nipple for the first time. Four years before, it had opened up the mailbox at her home, and everything had changed.