Romance of the Hands

They no longer remember how they found each other. In this dark, pulsing universe there are no beginnings, just long, slow moments that roll them over like waves, an endless ebb and flow that keeps them constantly in motion. Their fingers touch and twist, curl and cling, seeking out every curve and crevice of each other, teasing out each sigh and surge and smile. Every ache and arch and press of desire is played out in miniature: she draws close only to pull away, playing lightly at the end of his fingertips’ reach; he hunts her down and she allows herself to be enfolded, enveloped, pulled out from her hiding places into the warmth of his palms. He holds her to his chest, heart faltering, murmuring a blessing as his lips brush her knuckles, the warmth of his breath raising the hairs on her skin. Then back to the dance: fingers entwined, tangled into an embrace that twists and shifts with the lights on the ceiling, pushing, clenching, stretching up and out and round until there is nothing but the light and the magnetic tug of skin on skin.

“Who are you?” he murmurs, surfacing for a moment to search for some coherence of vision, eyes snapping open, seeking her face.

She places her hand on his forehead in reply, folding eyelids down gently, drawing the curtain on their newborn intimacy.

With eyes closed, there is only this: the lights, the bar, the dancers disappear and they are left alone, absolved of all need for narratives or explanations, free to explore every crook and corner of each other. Her soul flutters on her fingertips: she presses it to his lips, lets him take her into his mouth, one finger at a time, his teeth closing round her like rings, cages, as she ventures in and then pulls away. He lays his hand like a web across her face, a blind man tracing temples, forehead, lips: Behold, thou art fair, my love; behold, thou art fair. She breathes him in, his sweat, his scent, holding it in her lungs before pouring it out, feeling the chill on her skin as he breathes it back again. They are twined together now, arms wound round like vines grown into each other, roots taken hold. Their sweat falls and shimmers in her mind’s eye like droplets of dew on some secret garden. Her teeth tug at his lips like the flesh of some fruit that will not yield its sweetness all at once, but mixes in something bitter, the sharp salt tang of blood on her tongue.

As dawn comes they make their way past stumbling dancers up onto the rooftop, where they lie on their backs, arms spread wide to the sun. Sunlight glows red through still-closed eyelids. The voices of others drift like birds high above, swooping down from time to time to be swatted away, threadbare iconoclasts intruding on their sanctuary. No words need be spoken: their fingers made their vows, traced the paths of desire like lovers in the dark, learning every inch of each other without making a sound. Now in the light they need only a touch to discover themselves to each other, the feel of each other’s skin grown so familiar in each lingering moment of this long night. Their feet find each other, toes clasping, soles pressed together as if in prayer, while above them green fronds stretch out across the sky, and when at last they find themselves alone, he draws her close, pulling her into his arms to face the morning hand in hand.