Hands

Rian...



...has a love of hands. Not mine in particular, yes? Although Rian's hands are fine enough. The hands of other creatures. Long, slender, graceful fingers calloused from years of playing guitar. Short, bony knuckled hands, rounded and soft. My grandmother's hands, little more than ligaments in loose flesh, as they tremble in her lap, shadowed by dementia.

Rian also enjoys being touched. A passing nudge. A long stroke. A staggering embrace.

Yesterday evening.......Rian attended a hot tub gathering. Stripping down to bathing clothes in the rather cold evening. One of Rian's companions, a tall, strong creature nicknamed Ham, found the new tattoo'd marks upon Rian's body fascinating.

Not Rian. But the etched lines across my form. He could not keep his fingertips from them. Tracing a curve over and over as Rian sweated in the bubbling water, relaxing beneath the soothing rythm of hands. Then Ham spoke of a place Downtown, where those that wanted certain things could hang from hooks in the ceiling by one's own flesh.

Rian moved away. He is a kind soul. But after that remark Ham's hands reminded Rian of pain.

Today. Today at Studio Rian was lucky enough to earn an adjustment. A different kind of touch, that. A tugging of head and neck muscles, a kneading of shoulder blades. Yoga hands are not particularly calloused. Elizabetta's hands are strong and wiry. And every time she clenches fingertips around the base of Rian's head the world turns white.

Yes. For an invisible creature, Rian is rather obsessed with hands.