Holding hands is a skill few learn to master. It is like the fine tuning on a guitar, most people don’t notice the tone change, but some of us can tell when your E or G string isn’t just right. But, when someone slides their hands effortlessly into yours, when they move their body just close enough to run their hand down the inside of your left arm, grasp your hand with their right hand—that is perfection.
Then there is that moment when someone’s arm goes from being next to yours on a movie arm rest, or casually lingering near yours as you sit close on a couch, to fingers running over the back of your palm, a hand grasping yours gently. I have missed so many moments of my life during that first touch, that first sensation of another persons hand resting loosely between my fingers. It’s as if you go deaf, blind—the only sensation burning in you is the sensation of touch, every inch of your body lighting up like a lit fuse.
Someone who is good at holding you, works hard to find out how your fingers lock together; how their thumb fits over yours. They give your palm space when it is needed, and smother your skin when it isn’t. They rub the tips of their fingers against the tips of yours, smooth out the veins on the back of your hand, try to erase the wrinkles on your palms.
I am a hard girl to hold hands with, there is something about my hands that makes them hard to grab on to. I’d give anything to be held right now, to feel the gentle pads of your fingers slide between my knuckles. There is so much beauty in the way two people can fit together that way, palm to palm and knuckle to knuckle.
I sit around and think about it sometimes, think about how I’d like very, very much to be that kind of beautiful with you—my hand in yours and your heart-shaped hand tightly in mine.”