Hands

Her hands were always just slightly too small. Long palms, but short fingers she always had trouble reaching across the keys of the piano her mother insisted that she learn or, when she was older and decided her own instrument, stretching across frets to hold down strings to make perfect chords. Her life is full of missed notes and clunky tones, but she makes the best of it, even though she never fails to be disappointed.

His hands were always just slightly too large. They filled up too much space in his baseball glove, causing him to miss ball after ball hit straight at him in left felid because he constantly had to adjust, taking his eyes off the game. He would break fragile things in department stores and, when he was older, fumble with the tiny clasp of a girl’s bra on those drunken college nights where spirits were high and inhibitions were low, until just giving up, to the girl’s disgust. His life is filled of missed opportunities and broken dreams, but he makes the best of it, even though he never fails to be embarrassed.

They meet at a coffee shop while she plays her clunky notes and he struggles with a tiny china cup. To him, her voice makes up for the clumsiness of her playing, and to her, his eyes (a stormy shade of gray) make up for the awkward way he lifts the cup to his lips. When her set is over, they watch each other from the corner of their eyes from opposite corners of the room, each too nervous of their shortcomings to feel confident in their attraction. Eventually they both feel the call of nature and find themselves next to each other in the too long line for the shop’s one tiny bathroom.

They shyly make small talk as the seconds tick by, him telling her that he enjoyed her set—her cover of “Landslide” was his favorite—and her complimenting him on his shirt (a thrift store buy depicting a drunken cartoon duck). His hands are hidden in his pockets, hers fiddling with the belt loops of her jeans as the conversation continues on, and by the time they make it to the lavatory (he lets her ahead of him), numbers are exchanged and a date for lunch two days down the road is set.

The lunch date is a success, as is one for dinner the next night and the sunset boat ride the evening after that, where they discover they both went fishing with their grandfathers as children and debate who would win in a fight between Pacino and De Niro. She notices that he keeps his hands mainly in his pockets and, as the sun sets and the evening chill rolls in over the water, she slips her hand in to join his, her tiny fist curling into his palm like a cat. They don’t meet each other’s eyes, but each smile to themselves in the fading light of the day.

In the months that follow, he finds himself breaking things less and less, his large hands gaining a sort of imbalanced grace, and she discovers the patience to slow down and become less frustrated at her mistakes as she plays. For him, accidents still happen, and for her, her music still has its clunks, but they’ve both accepted it as part of themselves and moved on, fueled by the memory of an interesting conversation or flirtatious smile earlier in the day.

As they fall asleep for the night, his body curled around hers, protecting her from the dark in their mostly unfurnished apartment they rent together a year down the road; under the cool touch of the pillow, he holds her hand.