Holding Hands

I never wanted to hold anyone’s hand. I considered it unhygienic. A shocking segment of the population doesn’t wash their hands after using the restroom. It’s also a confining activity. What if an unexpected projectile flies at your face and you need that hand to defend yourself? Your reaction time is drastically reduced. At best it’s a sweaty proposition with few discernible upsides.

Then I met him. My hand naturally slips into his the moment I am close enough to reach it. Sometimes I find myself falling asleep holding his hand. It’s the most unrealistic romantic comedy sleeping known to man. I don’t like to eat dinner at wide tables anymore. I like to know I can reach across any divide and find his hand. I judge distance by the length of his arm.

Perhaps it’s because it all started when he grabbed my hand on a crowded dance floor. What if he didn’t have the courage to approach me that night? What if I was a bit more reserved? I have no idea what drew me to him. It felt like forces beyond my control. When I think of all the ways I might have and probably should have missed him, this man who has me seeing life in technicolor, I feel short of breath. It wonder, what other beautiful creative things am I missing because I’m afraid they might be uncomfortable?