Short story I — His Hands

Photo by David Cohen on Unsplash

I tap my phone to see what time it is. It’s 5:48 am — nothing unusual. I sense a void inside my throat. It wants to fill up with a soft but forceful wave coming from my belly, a kind of presence inside my stomach dying to splash out into the world, but it dies in my mouth. I choose to formulate the energy into words — inaccurate, sloppy words. The sounds coming out do not come close to the subtleties, the softness, the forcefulness, the clarity of the waves originating deep in my Being.

He lies next to me in the dark and I miss him. I know he is only 5 centimeters away, and still I miss his hand. I miss pressing into his palm like I am sinking into it. I miss the holding that never becomes grasping. His hand is completely there — in a small now, a small here, with a small me and a small him. His hand could be the bridge across this unbearable distance between his body and mine.

A haunting groundless fear of rejection forces wasted minutes to go by before I roll over and ask for his fingers to caress my spin. The sheets rustle as his left hand, strong and warm, reaches across the gap between our bodies and finds my naked back. I lay on my stomach. His fingers land effortlessly on my skin, looking for my vertebras. Each stroke caresses through my skin into my nervous system. The interaction changes. He perceives my invitation and lays the full weight of his palm on my ribs, my shoulder blades, my lower back. I wear only my archetypal lineage amulet on a leather strand but his hands know the precise boundaries of my offer.

His hands heal a chasm that my soul could never breach. Slowly, appreciating every millimeter and every curve, his fingertips work their way down to the delicate tip on my tailbone and stop. That is when I notice I am no longer lost in my thoughts. He senses my alertness and his fingers reverse direction.

The field becomes softer, more intense, more present. I feel the mattress under my chest and his hand pressing warmly on my left pelvis. Slowly, his fingers reach down around my left hip bone. I am totally surprise that I relax into a new level of trust that a man can respect my boundaries and what I want. His fingers feel the melting tension and slowly wrap around my hip bone, sinking deeply into the soft tissues of my belly. We breathe together. His Being meets my Being, we connect at a level of intimacy that my soul has longed for, for so long, but I never conceived was possible. Our Beings dance at the slowest pace, as if this moment would last forever. There could not possibly be anything better to do at this moment.

by Anne-Chloé Destremau