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She thrusted her hand forward, holding it up in a splay, as though to ask ‘what’s wrong with them?’ She scanned the back, then her palm, then the back again, eyes darting around for any spot of dirt or anything weird. She was as curious as he was.
For a few seconds he waited, hesitant to disturb her scrutinizing, before slowly taking her hand into his own. Her sweaty palm moistened his, and he ran his right fingers down the mallow skin of its back. Temperate afternoon sunlight lit up the texture of her skin. Plush and smooth, flesh folded finely under the drag of his thumb. It was spotless, clean.
He lingered over her knuckles, massaging each plump button. Four of her fingers fit rested across the whole width of his palm. He noted the tiny scars. One from a metal lid, and another from a careless incident with scissors. The dry peeling skin in the webs of her fingers were nearly picked clean. Firming pads of callouses spotted her palm where her rough grip met her shinai, and trailed along the length of her fingers. Uneven nails, jagged from being chewed, crowned each finger. Hangnails sat loosely around her cuticles.
In his mind he tried to recall— as he ran his thumb across each joint, holding her by the bends of her fingers as his touch traveled towards the tips— an evocation he wasn’t sure he should have. Only until when her middle three digits hung on the ledge of his grasp did he shudder; he thought fear was beneath him, but his insides twisted at such sight. He remembered the small child that once held onto his hand the same way. Barely holding on.
Such a tiny hand it was. Its tiny fingers curled around his. He would often take either little hand cupped in his own pair just to peer over its diminutive forms. It fascinated the young homemaker. Tracing soft palms with a finger, he would know it was time to stop when he hears her impatient grumble. And somehow, every time, a strange youthful tingle would find its way to the flesh on his hollow cheeks.
His chest ached. He caresses the hand beckoningly, once more taking it over his palm. Pressing their hands together, he found their sizes almost mirrored. He could no longer fit the pair snugly in his palms. The years have escaped him, as though despite his efforts, he still failed to keep a close watch.
Clean. Clean hands. Still, to him they were clean. Plush, soft, warm, and clean. She wouldn't believe him if he told her they were perfect.
But he knew, no matter what happens, even with the deepest of gashes, he would still coddle them— fawn over them, dote over them like he used to when she was a small child.
And how he hopes, he wishes, that the pale, rubbery, scarred sea of flesh that were his hands could reciprocate— no, return— no less than half of the kind warmth she had given his own.
For her, he worked the hardest. You could see it in her hands.
Never had to do a single chore. Never had to be bound. Never had to feel the surging wet pulse of blood.
It's this pristine innocence which he dedicates himself to.
He plants a kiss on the back of her palm.