Hands

I never wanted moisturized hands before you. Mother wanted me to moisturize, and therefore, I refused.

I didn't like it. It made me feel greasy. As a child, I had dry skin, that itched and was easily aggravated. I wasn't allowed to have bubble baths because they dried up my skin. Bubble baths were and still are a rare treat. I haven't the time for them now.

Eventually, whatever was wrong with my skin disappeared. It's still dry, but rarely itchy. It is rough, though, and so very flawed. I didn't mind until you came along. Until you came along, it had character.

I remember it all perfectly. I looked at your hands. They were perfect hands, large but elegant and long-fingered. Your hands were beautiful; I loved to watch them in whatever task you had them involved in.

I remember the day you told me I had beautiful eyes. You said they showed everything in my soul, that I wore my heart on my eyes, not my sleeve. The blush I wore hasn't often been rivaled. I thanked you, and you took my hand and walked me to third period.

Your hand felt as perfect as it looked. It was soft and smooth, the kind of hand that could drive a girl to throw out her inhibitions. I won't lie; I wanted to feel them against my skin. My own hand was tiny within yours, and it was rough, unworthy of being held in a hand as exquisite as yours was. And as my heart hammered out of my chest at the contact, I felt a sudden stab of envy.

It was very rare that I wished to have a quality that someone else possessed. I was always happy being myself, knowing I wouldn't fit into anyone else's skin. That day, however, I wanted that untainted quality that only your hands embodied. I wanted it as badly as I wanted love.

You never seemed to have a problem with my hand, but I wanted it to be deserving of yours.

I went home that day and picked up a neglected bottle of lotion. It was pale pink, a colour I hated, but it smelled like jasmine, which was slightly redeeming. Still, it even looked slimy. Rubbing a slug on my hand probably would have had the same effect, I thought. Soft hands, I whispered to myself, which strengthened my resolve. Quite bravely, for the girl I was then, I snapped it open and poured a large, pink, gooey glob onto my hand.

It was absolutely disgusting. I rubbed it into my hands anyway, until I felt it was thoroughly absorbed by my skin. I repeated this torturous process every evening after that.

My hands did become softer, but they never compared to yours. I didn't understand. How was it that a teenage boy that had probably never touched a bottle of lotion could have such smooth, wonderful hands?

You took my hand one day at the park, and you led me into the trees where passers-by could not see us. I was robbed of my breath as you took me into your arms and kissed me. It was my very first kiss, and it reminded me of Gone With the Wind, and your lips felt better than your hands did.

As you held me in your arms afterward, you whispered in my ear, "You're so soft." Of all the sweet murmurs that we exchanged that afternoon, that is the only one that I still remember. I smiled when you whispered that into my ear, and not just because your breath felt lovely against my skin.

I realized that day that I loved moisturizing.