Sometimes I forget everything I know about her
hands. In those times, they seem like exotic creatures, two delicate spider valets.
While she gazes at the mirror, trusting and
confident, they dance their way up the front of her blouse, knitting it together
with a spider's precision. Their legs rise and fall, working together
perfectly, one pushing the buttons and the other bending the fabric back just
so.
Then they roll over - one first and then the
other. Submissive and vulnerable, they offer their necks to each other as the
single button on each of their collars is made secure.
Then she turns her head this way and that, and
they scamper over her face, patting here, adjusting there, stroking an eyebrow,
pushing a lock of hair into place. She is groomed and ready and walks with confidence
to the door. She forgets her keys but no matter. The spider on the right has
seen them. It springs from her side to the top of the table by the door and
snatches them just as she passes.
Where would she be without these gentle,
tireless servants? Where would I be? Lost, for they are my sweetest connection
to her.
In the evening, I often look with longing at
them, wishing one would come to visit me.
Somehow she knows, and one of them takes leave
of the familiar and bravely crosses the emptiness between us. First it plays
with my hand; it slips its legs seductively between my fingers and fiddles with
my wedding ring. Then it slides softly down the base of my palm to the sensitive
skin of my wrist, feeling the quickening pulse there.
Next it climbs up my sleeve, tugging on the
fabric, ducking in and out of valleys, squeezing here and there until it reaches
the top. It plays with my hair a moment, then playfully squeezes my earlobe, pulling it gently, then letting it spring back into place.
All the while she stares straight ahead with
just a hint of a smile on her lips, because she knows exactly what to do to me.
rlp
