Is it possible to fall in love with a man’s hands and not the man himself? There’s nothing wrong with the man as a whole, he’s attractive and charming but he does not carry the same grace in his face that he has in his hands.
Un-calloused and clean; his nails are short and bitten. The expanse of toffee colored skin smoothes over every knuckle and joint flawlessly. His fingers are long and lean and hairless. Even the perfectly placed birth mark on his wrist seems an accessory to this gorgeous appendage. Every time they move it’s precise. His hands are seducing you, pulling you in and coercing you to do anything they please. They rub his neck when he’s thinking or embarrassed. They sit palms up as he explains. They pinch his lip as his mind wanders. His hands are living a life away from their owner. They have lovers and secret admirers. They have a story as old as the arms and shoulders and chest that wears them. But in this man’s hands there is more truth and sincerity than the face could possibly express. You could almost mistake them for feminine if it weren’t for the wide flat surface of his palms.
You would deceive the man just to be with his hands. You want to watch them grow old. You want to see them cradle a baby. You love the idea of them searching across the expanse of your large and swollen pregnant belly. You want your children to have these hands so they will be carried on long after the original pair is rigid and cold.
You cannot bear to think of these hands never existing or even worse the idea that you could have never known them. When you met the man and he extended his hand out to grasp yours, you felt lightheaded and giddy. His warm smooth palm against yours shot into you the euphoric high you could only describe as love at first sight. You watched the hands as the man spoke, painting the air with pictures and words the lips told of. They spoke of different countries and experiences you were still too young to know. These hands and the man in possession of them were not from around here.
Foreign hands, foreign skin. It all made sense now. You could never find something so perfect in your mediocre land you had to go abroad, follow the hands to England and watch their personality change on familiar soil. They grew excited, clapping together and darting out to point. You may not have always known where you were but you always knew exactly where the hands were placed; perhaps at the man’s side, or on the small of your back to lead you. But you loved them the most when they caressed your cheek, ran the length of your neck and fluttered down your arm like the fumbling of a butterfly’s wing.
The days pass into months and though the hands never lose their charm the man begins to distract you away from them. He’s funny and warm. His soft precise country English brogue begins to hypnotize you more than flesh. The kind childlike gleam to his eye as he tells you stories, his natural scent. You feel dishonest for following him around with only the love for his hands as an excuse. You want to apologize to him but how could he understand. Before you realize what’s happening you are in love with the man as much as his hands. You notice things you hadn’t noticed before like the deep dimple that creases his left cheek, the cowlick of hair at the back of his head and the purse of his lips as he sleeps. You are content to sleep next to the man and play with the tips of his fingers as they lay sleeping on your stomach the place where his child will one day rest before the next generation of perfect hands, lone dimples and curly hair come into the world. This man will never be forgotten.