Friday, 13 January 2012

Hands

What do your hands say?
.
.
.

A big hand, with long fingers, slightly clammy, she thought when she held his hand for the first time. Bitten nails which gave away a possible nervous demeanor, a habit which got him some chiding; his hand might have spoken more than he did.

Not that he wasn't a talker - that he was. His hands just told more things.

A tight grip, a friendly tug on the cheek, fingers interlocking, they all spoke.

Today, she forgot who held the hand first. Her hand slips away, he catches it. Silence, the occasional words, and more silence. On a dull evening, with nothing out of the ordinary, they walk, hand in hand.

His hand slips away once, twice. Her fingers find it back. The third time that it slips, they don't. The destination approaches. His hand finds hers again and squeezes. 


Instead of speaking, they seem to be screaming; the conversation is almost too much to keep up with. 

The destination arrives, palms rub together as her slips away for the last time, fingers having the last say as the touch dies

An imprint of their hand is left on each others. The conversation is over.

And the bits and pieces that she could put together tell her that they would probably not be holding hands again.



2 comments:

  1. S/he: I want to marry you. I want to give you babies. I want to give you the rest of my life!
    S/he: I don't want the rest of your life. I want my own. I'd been granted a glimpse of heaven, then dumped on the sidewalk of Rue d'Assas.

    Nothing ever surpasses the rapture of that first awakening.

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