Andy.

He put his hand on the chair in front of me.
I found myself staring at it, examining it.
I noticed how they were slightly dry from the winter air, and there were small scars between his pointer and middle finger. I noticed that his nails were short but clean, and I found myself thinking about him cutting his nails every now and then. I wondered about his daily life. I thought about his hands typing on a keyboard, carrying books, holding the door open for someone behind him. I started to follow the veins up his arm, becoming aware of the person it was attached to.
I don't know whether I was tired or zoning out, but something about his hand mesmerized me. Once in a while, little things like that will catch my attention.
Sometimes it's when the girl sitting in the front of the room is idly playing with her hair.
Sometimes it's when the boy sitting next to me is running his pencil in between the wire spirals on the spine of his notebook.
Sometimes it's the boy walking to class with his headphones in, not checking the street before he crosses.
Today it was the hand I was looking at, resting on the chair in front of me.