Before; After

Hands

What do hands do at the start? They hover, unsure. The air between a potential lover's skin and hand is electric, tentative, wanting to cross the boundary but afraid. Afraid of misreading, of failure, or worse, of success. They are warm as they touch his skin for the first time. Lightly grazing the hairs on his arms, both his hairs and yours stand to attention. My hands sweat a bit from fear, from exhilaration. He does not pull away from my touch. My hands find his. His are shaking, but they do not pull away. They hold mine. They also hold hope.

What do hands do in the middle? Touch. Familiar touch. Rest on my hip; caress my arm, my neck. Squeeze in support and absent-mindedly play with my leg hairs as we lounge on the couch, him watching the television, me reading. A habit. Hands lead, guide us both to pleasure. Fingers interlocked in the middle of the night, both unaware of how, of when our hands found each other in the dark to weave affection and love.

What do hands do during the fall? Clench. Point. Fight the air, build walls in anger and aggression. Slam doors. Grip steering wheels tighter. Fingers that once danced upon my skin download dating apps, type flirtatious messages, messages benign enough to explain away. Fingers betray trust, break into his phone, scroll through the messages his fingers typed, the messages he hid. His hands touched a body that was not yours. Mine touched a body that was not his. Our hands hadn't touched in love for weeks, months, years even. Hands that, when they did find themselves on our bodies, did it more out of habit than affection. We were no longer a WE. We had become a habit, not a love.

What do hands do after? Remember. Reach out in darkness to find only sheets and pillows. Wrap around my own shoulders; substitute for another's embrace. Habits are hard to break. They tingle for that familiar touch, even though the touch they miss is not coming back, should not come back. The body betrays what the mind knows is right. Hands type his name into the search bar to see how his life has progressed after me. They pour wine first, then whiskey, then whatever's around really. They substitute, miserably, for the hands that used to be his. The pleasure remains, but it's lacking, limp; and, afterward, the emptiness stretches out even more to choke. Pour another. Hands interlock with the comforter now, with my pillows, pillows now spotted a darker shade.

Hands continue to reach, continue to grasp, even in failure when they find nothing. But continue to reach, they do, nevertheless. That is, until they find a keyboard and start typing: about the past, about the present. They type until they create a new future.