The nail salon smelled like acetone and time.
Bold orange blooms on my fingertips.
An old woman entered, slow movements, blue eyes, old skin, long gray hair.
I was drowned in her very sacred act and existence.
Something switched on inside me: humanity exposed, the flesh, the aura, the aging,
the mind locked to the body.
I closed my eyes and traveled forward.
Saw myself as raw consciousness, no hands, no polish, missing the click‑clack of clippers.
Nostalgic for skin, suddenly heavy with the thought of weightless tomorrows, engineered in quiet code.
The Now came back. The salon is now alive with Vietnamese low-voiced chatters.
I watched the woman working on my nails, the flesh, the act, the language.
Are we going to lose all that? Become another creature, if a creature at all?
Then nostalgia settled: sharp, unexpected, for the simple privilege of touch.
The future I glimpsed felt silent and clean,
almost too efficient to touch a hand to feel the human flesh.
Orange dried on my fingertips as the vibe of elsewhere remained,
asking how long flesh will stay in fashion.
I stayed there a moment longer, holding onto the nostalgia of being human.
A Human Hand. Almost. Not That It Matters.