mindspill fiction: His Hands

his hands reached out.

she avoided them like they held all the evils in the world and longed to deposit them into her pores. the same hands that had held her hand as she pushed in pain three years ago and bore their son. the hands that nervously held hers and slid the platinum and diamond ring on, while glistening eyes looked into hers and told the perfect mouth below to say i do, four years ago.

those hands had betrayed her. learned the texture of a new woman and then returned to her as if their prints hadn’t been soiled. as if she wouldn’t notice the stench of deceit. she snatched her arm from their reach when they extended again.

they dropped to his side in defeat. regret and sorrow radiating even from the fingertips.

she loved those hands. still.

long, strong, and brown they were. the very definition of masculinity in her eyes. the type that made men add a little more firmness to their handshake, and women wonder if the long standing believed correlation existed between them and what rested just behind his zipper. amazing the power ten fingers could hold in the swirled little lines that made him individual.

she loved those hands.

she’d miss them most of all. they’d been smoothing her hair, rubbing her feet, gripping her waist, smacking her ass, holding her hand, even restraining her anger a time or two; …making her feel like a woman, for the last five years.

she couldn’t imagine not waking up to them stroking her face.

… she couldn’t imagine them touching her face ever again.

“give me your hands.” he pleaded, the emotion in his voice making each word heavier than the previous. once again the two sources of her pleasure on many a night, reached towards her.

she weakened. felt her knees and her will buckle in one breath. placed her shaking but otherwise plain and unimpressive hands into his glorious two. uninvited tears sprang to the lashes stubbornly shielding her from looking at him.

he squeezed tight, his hot hands engulfing her own. started using words like love. soulmates. only one. sorry. sorry. sorry.

she stared at him while he begged her forgiveness. felt his sincerity.

still her eyes traveled down to their hands again.

she once told someone that she knew they were made for each other by the way her hands fit into his, and later, how perfectly his grip fit on each of her thighs when she was atop him during passionate moments, winding him to ecstasy.

those hands felt like they were molding her anew during those times. he’d learned every brown inch of her, curve by curve, fingertip by fingertip.

and now, they knew someone else’s. some other woman had experienced her magic, from the very same hands that rubbed the top of their son’s head so lovingly each night as they laid and read colorful books to each other.

she looked at his hands. imagined them traveling that home wrecking bitch’s landscape.

she noticed tears falling into his upturned palms. couldn’t tell if they were hers or his.

the magic was gone. she couldn’t. she didn’t. she wouldn’t, forget. and forgiveness was miles away, if it ever peaked over the horizon.

she knew the loss she’d feel. but she sighed, and released them.

****

wrote this a while ago. but i still like it. lol.

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8 comments

  1. …swirled little lines that made him individual.
    I ♥ how you conjure up ways to say things.
    It’s so ill.

    I become so comfortable reading over here that I go to turn a page only to realize I’m
    on your site and not cuddled up with a book in hand. 🙂

Say it loud, say it proud... just not in all caps.

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