A man’s hands

Photo by Michael Kahn on Unsplash‍ ‍

From a timed write back in 2021? I’ve no idea what the prompt was!

I think I know what you do, I said. But didn’t want to think about it too much. I was considering that his fingernails were a bit longer than optimal and had a bit more dirt under them than one would like to see, hygiene and all. A tobacco smell. The slight paunch at his belt. These things intrigued me.

I was gripping my purse more tightly as we sat at the bar. As if that might protect me. From myself. From my tenderness. It was the hands, you see. A man’s hands were what aroused or didn’t arouse me. I’d made mistakes because of it. That guy in the Mexican restaurant in Satunton. And he could sing. Humming. Stain of tobacco on his front teeth. The feeling that I was getting too close to a wild animal. I hadn’t been able to help myself…

Here I was again. I could have stayed in my hotel room and watched The Good Wife on my ipad, had a split of Chardonnay from the commissary behind the front desk, made a call or two. Stayed up late or gone to bed early. Instead I’d looked up a place with music.

There were three TVs. Sports on all. A pool table. I’d seen him immediately. Talking and chatting real friendly with the bartender. To get attention, I’d interrupted and ordered some tequila and pulled a cigarette out. He offered a light, then rolled his own. I Can’t Get Enough of Your Love was coming through the speakers. I could feel my cunt against the vinyl of the stool. A little clammy from the long day of driving. A little tender with yearning.

He’d asked me to guess, more or less, what it was he could do with his fingers. Pie tester? Mechanic? Magician? Physician? Speed dialer on a rotary phone? He was about to tell me the answer. He was smiling at me. His tongue was touching the bottom of his incisors every now and then. Some mischief in his blue eyes.

What might those fingers feel like on my neck? And what would his tongue taste like in my mouth? Sour, sweet? Cigarettes? Beer? How many other necks might his fingers have caressed?

He was wrong. Definitely wrong. But his hands were right. Nails lined with black. The palms red. No rings. No scars.

I’d been in trouble before. And here I was again — delivering myself into a stranger’s hands.