On the back of your hand
Other times he had touched your hand, I don't know how many, I don't know if many, not that never, maybe never, not like this. But the confusion of starting this writing is almost unnecessary when what has been no longer makes sense with a milestone that erases the history of what was not. Not that never, not like this.
It all started with the innocent touch of the nail end of our nails, yours delicate and long, mine a consequence of routine, all in the joke of the digital contact of the film ET Grinding, uncomfortable, bland, not very funny. The static on the classroom carpet made a slight spark in the third falenge, just at the touch of the flames, which happens to me every so often in my habit of dragging my feet and your frequency on the rubber insoles. There it ended, there was no more.
The afternoon went by in the despair of the Datashow warming my ears, the hopelessness to finish on Saturday, the laughter of photographs from other times that will not return. The time came, the afternoon, the night, as if it were all just another day. The wait for dinner, for you to arrive, for you to laugh. Once again, the timid greeting in the hand, the inevitable laugh of life, the honest look of respect, the anxieties that must be attended to.
But in the dark entrance of that enclosure, with the arbor above the vines in disorder, I felt the gentle touch of the torso of your hand in mine. Sooner or later, with the same and more intense feeling of the front seat of my car; one going, one coming, soft and innocent of the narrowness of the portal and the caution of the uncertain stone floor. The sensation of your soft skin on the 19 hairs of just 1.83 square centimeters on the back of my hand was chilling. In logarithmic regression, they bristled, carrying that sensation through the follicle, to the base, with a reaction of goose bumps penetrating the corneal, lucid and spiny layers and finally grinding loudly in the scaphoid bone. Then in positive radical, in less intensity but similar connection, tangent towards a constant so as not to forget the milestone.
It was an unexpected return to a moment in my childhood when I think I saw you somewhere else. With the same smile, savoring the soda straw, while with your eyebrow you looked at me as if no one else existed. Gone were the other memories, when I would have seen you in the coincidences of these turns, with the bad taste of the dusty road when it is left behind, in the distance and the forgetfulness of boring towns. As far as thought, as cold as cordiality, another day, another night, another Friday, what does it matter… don't go… don't forget me…
I was able to experience that reverse scroll devouring the intensity of your soft skin, as it advanced from a non-existent inflection point without the integral being composed, the contact from the exhausted metacarpal to the phalanx where this story begins. This or the other, yours, mine, life itself. Every inch of the back of your hand reminded me that I exist, in the unforgettable feeling of a Tuesday night, not this one, not the last two.
Then I missed him. The romance of the back of your hand brushing against mine, unintentionally or willingly to the beat of your smile from the left eyelash, where there seems to be a mole and just before the hair falls on your face; not much, not little, strand by strand. That same sensation that causes a Saturday afternoon, with the excitement of Thursday that left, when everything seems to be the same again. In the acceptance of status, with the good humor to hide the stress and again, that feeling that everything will be the same. Again, not so new, with the memory of that moment that surpassed the sublime.
With and without the hope that there will be another, better. With the back of your hand, another Monday, not like those Tuesdays, yes like those, not with anyone else.
