Short Stories

His Hands

His hands always have a strong grasp on mine.

Our fingers could be interlaced or our palms facing downwards and fully pressed against each other, whatever way we hold hands, his always fully envelopes mine.

His hands are surprisingly soft.

Not rough like my past boyfriends. Theirs was dry and full of calluses. I prefer the feel of his smooth skin against mine.

His hands are always warm, even in the cool air.

They never fail to be my personal heater when my hands start to go pale. He rarely wears gloves which astounds me. His hands always have a healthy blush-pink complexion.

His hands have strayed in the past.

The first time I caught him, his hands were intimately running up and down the lower back of a woman from his work. That night I refused to let him in my house. His hands didn’t stop banging against the front door until I opened it the next morning. His hands were red and sensitive to touch for a while afterwards.

The second time I caught him, his hands were running through another woman’s hair and pushing it away from her face. They lingered in her blonde tresses for a moment too long. When he saw my glare, he quickly yanked his hands away like a kid caught in the cookie jar. I ignored him for the rest of the day, no matter how many times he attempted to hold my hand or my hip. When we got home, he firmly cupped my head and didn’t let go until I forgave him.

His hands are so strong.

He used to assist his mother in the kitchen as a teenager and kneed the bread and pasta dough. Unknowingly, he can sometimes squeeze my hand or arm or waist a little too tightly.

His hands are powerful.

He can silence the loudest and craziest arguments with subtle raise of a hand.

His hands let me know I’m loved.

From opening doors, to the spontaneous massages he gives me at night or the time when he got down on one knee and presented a velvet ring box. I was too focused on his slightly shaky hands that I almost forgot to answer.

Today as we walk side-by-side to our favourite restaurant, I glance down between us to where we are intertwined and feel a sense of pride at the shimmering gold ring on his fourth finger. His cobalt eyes burns a deep hole into my head as I continue staring, probably wondering what is going through my mind. The pad of his thumb gently rubs the muscle between my thumb and pointer finger causing my skin to heat up.

A surge of possessiveness runs down the veins of my arm and to my fingertips where I grasp him more securely. His hands are my hands.

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