Hand in hand

I see your hand resting on the smooth cushioned couch – pale ivory on olive green – almost limp, but like a wild cat on the prowl, waiting and watching. You are hairy, I think, perhaps for the millionth time. The hairs near your knuckles curve around in a matted heap and they are subtly alluring. I inch my hand closer and I compare mine to yours – a harsher brown to your ivory, older looking with spidery blue veins and whiter nails. Your hand still waits in hushed confidence.

I rub my pinky slightly against your thumb, an invitation to touch. I comb out those wiry hairs and trace their length. You flex your thumb straightening the creases, an almost undetectable pulling back. I am not disheartened but rather emboldened. I coquettishly draw lines on the back of your hand with my index finger. The nail is slightly long, not manicured, and it makes a faint grating sound against your dry skin. With a sudden shake, your hand makes a fist and lies still in brooding dominance.

A little impatient, I hold your wrist firmly with my left hand and open your fingers one by one. Your little finger eases open without resistance, teasing me to move on. I prize your other fingers open too and each one leads me on, revealing just a little more, like a tantalizing treasure hunt. And my hand, the covetous hunter, the greedy pig, bumbles along, intoxicated with success and tripping over itself in eagerness. Your hand waits in mute power.

Like smoothing out a crumbled piece of paper, I iron out your hand with mine. Your hand is still obstinately lifeless, my treasure still hidden, and I am desperate. I tickle it. I pinch it. I shake it. I squeeze it. Your hand still taunts soundlessly. I am dejected. I finally give up. I place your hand quietly back on your lap and withdraw mine slowly.

And then you pounce. In one fell swoop, my hand is engulfed in yours, your broad palm rubbing the back of my hand in an almost indecent show of strength and closeness. You interlock my fingers with yours and give a tight squeeze. It is as warm as a caress, as intense as a kiss. I shudder with pleasure. Come with me, you say. My hand is ensconced in yours and happily your slave. Hand in hand, we walk, intimate and loved, in loquacious silence.

(This is in response to a tag by Usha. Sorry for taking my own sweet time with it, Usha. But then, what better time to respond to a tag on “holding hands” than Valentine’s eve?)