His hand was warm. It was so very warm and not at all sweaty. Was he nervous? Was he, even the tiniest bit, terrified? He didn't seem to be. His hand was warm and gentle as it held mine. I looked at his hand and saw how small mine seemed to be in his. My hand had always seemed big to me. Bigger than my mother's and my best friend's. Clunky in many ways. I couldn't twist it around the neck of a guitar or violin comfortably, but it had never seemed small. Until now.
How did my hand feel to him? Cold? Isn't that how it worked? If he felt warm, wouldn't my hand be cold? Would he think I was scared? Maybe he would be able to tell how nervous I was and how excited.
"Can I hold your hand?"
It was so easy a question, just popped out of his mouth and I took his hand without thinking about it. But now, his hand was warm and it was bigger than mine. It engulfed mine, but I didn't feel small. I felt excited and thrilled. I could feel it in my toes and in my belly. Just that twinge of something that made me want to do it again, just to feel it once more.
I smiled, looked to my jacket and took my hand from his. My hand felt so very cold after being in his, even for just a moment. I swapped my jacket to my other arm, dangled it at my elbow. Another smile to him and I took his hand. He smiled back.
My hand in his warm hand was small. But it felt right, like it belonged there. I felt that tingle once more. A thrill of something electric went through me and I knew. I just knew.
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