• Hands. Soft, pale hands resting neatly on mine. You must be across from me the way your hands are. Your hands are warm. Your hands are dirty, but I can still see the deep creases in the knuckles. Hardworking hands. Strong hands. Hands that have held a girl through a long time. Our skin doesn't have friction. Smooth. My hands move away from your hands. Your left hand tickles the hair on my ribs. Stops on my stomach to linger like hungry eyes. Then smooth all the way to the nape of my back. Skin on skin. Your right hand moves towards the apple of my cheek, brushing my arm with tiny bristles. My hands are on your chest. On the concave of your neck. On the edge of your ribs. Smooth. Frictionless. Like touching air with closed eyes.