She sits at her dressing table and stares at her reflection. An old woman stares back. She is surrounded by the usual paraphernalia associated with desperate middle age and enabling wealth – bottles of promised youth, tubs of eternity, creams that fill the cracks. She traces her finger across her exposed white throat in a
Elani has grown up in violence. It surrounds her. It inhabits her father and lives on every face in her neighborhood. But Elani has learned a trick: watching people’s hands. If she carefully observes how someone carries a mug or a phone or a bottle, she can spot that subtle difference between holding and wielding.