"My left hand's my pretty hand," I said. "Since I write and draw so much with the other one, it's rough and calloused, while this one's soft and smooth."

He thought for a moment, turning my hands around between his.

"You write with this one?" he asked, paying attention to my right hand.

"Yes, I write with this one."

"Then this one's the pretty hand, because you create with it."

I laughed as if to brush him off, but his words were genuine, and I couldn't help but feel the magnitude behind them.