Hands

Ok so this is my first attempt at short stories. This is a true story and it's something that I needed to get out. Please comment.

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Hands are shaking cold

These hands are meant to hold

Hands; that’s what comes to mind when I think about you. The way you folded you hands over mine. Your hands are about twice my size, my finger tips would barely reach where your fingers started. Hands were one of the first things we talked about. Well palms really. You told me how if the lines on your palms met at the top you were good luck, but if the lines didn’t meet you were bad luck. I remember how you gently grabbed my palm for the first time.

“See they meet at the top, you’re a horseshoe.”

“But they don’t on this hand.”

I showed you my other palm, the lines on my palm made two clear paths that never joined.

“I guess I’m half and half”

You didn’t say anything after that.

As our relationship moved on, hands were still always important. You used to talk about my hands all the time. You always talked about how cold they were.

“Jesus your hands are freezing!”

“They always are. But that’s what you’re there for; you’re my hand-warmer.”

I saw that smile; I know you liked me saying that. After that you always told me my hands were cold. But I only said it once. Looking back I wish I said it more, but maybe its better that I didn’t. Maybe me not saying it more has made this a bit easier on you. I hope it has

You liked how small my hands were. You were always telling me how cute and tiny they were. One time you even said you loved them. I wonder if you still do.

I liked your hands too. I remember the way your long fingers would stroke my short stubby fingers. You always had little bruises under your fingernails. I never did ask how you got them. Your palms were rough and calloused, but were always soft and gentle when you held my hand.

Kind of like you. People always asked me what I saw in you. I guess they only see the calluses, the scars, they don’t see how gentle you really are. Or at least you used to be. I can’t tell if you’re still as gentle as you used to be. I guess that’s my own fault.

We used to write our names on the back of the palm. I remember I had to write my name for you the first time because you didn’t know how to spell it. You never spelt it wrong after that. I always had your name written on the back of my hand. You took it one step further. I remember one day your friend came up to us. He was talking about your hands.

“Come on, show it to her!”

“Show me what?”

You smiled embarrassedly; even though we had been together for so long you still were very shy around me.

I can’t explain what I felt when you pulled up your sleeve; deep, blood-crusted scratches spelt out my name. It was a surreal moment; I think that was when I saw how much I really meant to you. That’s also when I started to realize that our relationship was starting to become unhealthy. Because you had more on you then just my name; red lines crawled all over your arms. Some of them met at the top; did that mean they were good luck? But I kept silent. I thought it would be best if I kept my opinions to myself. Maybe I shouldn’t have.

I don’t know why I ended things between us. I don’t know if it was a right or wrong decision. I do know that I should have ended it better, I should have told you to your face. You deserved to at least of gotten the chance to ask me why, even though I didn’t have an answer.

I wish you would talk to me. I want to know if your hands have healed over yet. I want to see if the scratches left scars. I hope they didn’t. I don’t want to think about what you would do if they did. But I guess it’s my own fault.

I miss your hands.