His Hands (A Micro-Fiction Piece)

His hands.

That’s what she thought of most often.

She’s not sure why she remembered them most. Maybe it was the way he always reached for hers no matter where they were. In the halls of the university when he walked her to class, or stretching his hand out across the table as they ate. At home when they watched movies, even when she was cooking for him and she had to playfully bat his hand away so she wouldn’t burn their dinner. She even remembered their hands entwined during lovemaking more than she remembered the lovemaking itself. He was always reaching for her hand. She didn’t even have to look to know that his hand was longing for hers, that his warmth was waiting to meet hers again. Rarely could she deny that longing, for her hand belonged in his as much as his hand in hers.

The strength of his hands, the warmth penetrating her own skin, their powers merging right there together. He owned her in those moments that he held her hand and she would give up anything to just feel one of his hands in hers again.

As it was, they were no longer warm and there was no more strength in them, no more power to ground her. No, they were cold and lifeless, rotting away in a pine box, but she would never forget them and their original warmth. His hands would always be there, too far away to hold, longing for hers in his.