Shiny — the hands of the nurse from the antiseptic she had rubbed on her palms. She tended to me, cotton pinched between her fingers, dabbing my skin with the lightness of a robin pecking at seeds. I watched the hands of a life lived, moulded by purpose. Every blemish tells a story, and hers spoke of a devotion to others. She had hands that smiled. I passed the time in the company of her humming.
*
Striated — those tiny cuts on your fingers, when we first met. I should have known; not even paper trusted you back then to handle it with care. You were sitting on a bench, sucking on your latest cut. The lemony scent of your after-shave greeted me first, an invisible business card you were extending to me. My nose twitched at the introduction. Danger of the job, you told me as I sat beside you to eat my lunch. What are you, a lion tamer? Almost, you replied, I work in publishing. I blushed, you smiled. Patrick, you said, offering me your name and hand.
*
Stiff — my mother’s hands from long hours spent at work. I was an ungrateful child, demanding for her hands to be available to towel me dry after a bath or hold a book to read at bedtime. Tokens of her devotion I always expected, not understanding. Sometimes, the absence of hands to tuck you in speak of a different kind of love. A kind that can only be recognised and appreciated with age. Her love was a fine wine.
*
Warm — your hands on my frozen cheeks as you kissed me for the first time, melting the snow on my face and the heart in my chest. I kept mine warm, tucked inside the back pockets of your jeans. You taste of peppermint, you told me. I had eaten those sweets for days, I wanted to be new and fresh for you. You held me close, so I could glimpse only details of you, keeping me away from the whole picture. We stood outside my front door in the cold, two kissing roses painted red.
*
Yellow — the colour of coolness on my big sister’s fingers, left by the roll-ups she smoked. Ten years older than me, she wore that cool wrapped in leather jackets, vintage tee-shirts, and DocMartens; she pinned it to her nose with a stud. She shared her wisdom with me on Friday nights, as her hands worked the kohl pencil around her eyes. Be careful with boys, little bug, she told me, nicotine-stained fingers ruffling my hair. Their love is like stars, warm and distracting, but sometimes by the time their light reaches you, it’s already dead.
*
Strong — the pressure of your hand around my waist, pulling me in as you introduced me to your colleagues at the first book launch you took me to. Our debut as a couple into the haute-society of publishing. The debutante I was, blushed at every “this is my beautiful girlfriend”. That evening we became a “we”: we were sitting over there, we were planning a holiday to Greece, we met at the park. I got drunk on “we” all night long. And every time, that slight pressure of your hand on my waist. I nested in this display of affection, unaware it was really a seal of ownership.
*
Chewed-up — the nails on the fingers of my first serious boyfriend. Unsure mind and fumbling hands, unfamiliar with the map of my body under my shirt or beneath my trousers. More medical examination than foreplay, mechanically checking my breasts for lumps or my vagina for irregularities. At least, I helped him find his vocation. He would make a worthy addition to the medical profession, I decided, but when I asked him what he wanted to do, he replied a poet. I never said anything to that. Who was I to break the heart of a poet.
*
Radiating — the redness of your palm after you slapped me for the first time, telling me it hurt you more than it hurt me. I doubted that, the slap didn’t leave you a ringing ear. That night, I was too stunned to cry or speak. It was my fault, I made you do it, you shouted, rubbing your hand. I hid in the bathroom until the thump of the front door informed me you had gone down to the pub.
You came back the following morning with a hangover and a mumbled excuse. You should have asked me — I spent the entire night coming up with a hundred of those for you. I always knew out of the two of us I had the better imagination.
*
Punctured — the tip of your finger, a red dot of mistrust where the thorn pricked you. That bunch of roses didn’t believe how sorry you were, or your promises never to do it again. How is it that objects always knew you better? You could fool humans, me included, but not them. I’m so sorry, it won’t happen again, you promised. I accepted your flowers with a face full of smiles and a head full of delusion. The idea you wanted to change for me was so flattering, like my love had super hero power.
*
Weathered — the skin on the hands of the policeman taking my statement as the nurse worked on me. Cracked from hours patrolling in the cold, bringing down thugs, directing the public, or picking up victims. The Swiss Army knife of hands. That all-purpose hand settled on my shoulder, as he ushered me out of the house and into his patrol car. You’re alright now, he assured me. I know, I just proved NASA wrong: light can escape a black hole.
*
Banged-up — how new beginnings looked on my right hand. I liked the cuts and bruises where my knuckles connected with your jaw. I didn’t lie when I told you last night never to hit me again or you would regret it. You didn’t want to believe I had found my courage. I didn’t believe it either, not until my fist departed towards the land of your face.
Thanks to you and to me I now have a broken hand and reconditioned self-esteem.
Some fine tools for starting over.
© Laure Van Rensburg
Laure Van Rensburg is a French native, living in the UK. Her short stories can be found in online magazines and anthologies including Across The Margin, Ellipsis Zine, The Fiction Pool and Reflex Fiction. She has been longlisted for the Bath Short Story Award and shortlisted for TSS Publishing Summer Flash Competition. Contact her at:
Twitter: https://twitter.com/Laure0901
