~ a half imagined moment ~
We sat in the diner booth, the three of us killing time til our afternoon movie, a distraction to fill the dreary Sunday. He sat next to me, our legs almost, but not quite, touching. Our friend sat across from us, massaging his scalp, then retying his dreadlocks back up under his bandanna.
Our friend and he talked, rather exuberantly, about a subject I had zero interest in. I found them almost cute in how much they loved the subject, except for the fact that I could not follow them, nor did I want to.
All of us at the beginning of our diner stay, even before our server took our orders, had brought out our smartphones. His laid to his left, at the edge of the table; if it had been a thin thing, I would’ve feared it falling. Our friend alternated between unlocking and relocking his Droid throughout our wait for our food, our meal, and even now as we sat, the two of them sipping coffee and talking.
I occasionally twirled my phone on one of its corners, but now it rested at an angle on the edge of the table as I perused my Twitter feed, letting the boys have their chat in peace.
He crossed his arms, resting his left forearm on the table, his left hand dangling in the pocket of space between his chest and the edge. His right hand gesticulated enthusiastically as he explained to our friend the answer to his tech problem, solving an issue that seemed almost impossible.
Matter-of-factly, I reached my left hand over and held his forefinger, softly massaging it with my thumb.
He continued to talk to our friend, and I continued to read my feed, but our hands under the table lived a life all their own.
He pivoted his arm, giving his hand more room to move. He interlocked his fingers with mine, sliding his digits in and out between the valleys of my hand. He grazed his fingertips inside my palm, tracing my life, wisdom, and love lines. He danced his digits across my skin on the back of my hand, encircling each knuckle, figure-eighting across and back. And then he gripped my hand again, squeezing hard, holding it tight.
I didn’t let go. Nor did he.
It was loving, comforting, having him so close to me, being so close to him. Even in this restaurant, even on this dreary day, I felt warm not because of the layers of clothing on my body. I felt the heat between us, the connection, the constant way we always had an eye on each other.
When it was time, our trio paid our bill, left the restaurant, and headed to the small theatre nearby. We saw the indy movie with our friend; everyone loved it. We then went home.
But during the walk to the theatre, and during the movie, and as he drove us home, more time than not, we held each others hand.
Categorised as: Gen Fiction
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