Now, now, now he extends his hand to me across the desk, capturing mine, accepting the divinity of my experience and touching it, tasting it with his fingers. He spreads my fingers, probing like a butcher with a joint. His gaze fixes unblinking on my face, searching and unveiling. I can feel his nails as he grips my arm. What can he possibly find in my flesh that is so all-fired important? Is he looking for melanoma? For tattoos? What does he see in my eyes?