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It's his hands that get me.
I could sit there for hours.
Just watching his hands.
Taking in every twist of a finger.
Every stroke of a thumb.
Just staring.
Imagining.
Remembering.
Remembering how it feels to have his fingers stroking my face, running through my hair, trailing across my skin - pushing inside me.
Making me come.
I never come.
Not with anyone.
Not with anyone but him.
And I know it's because of his hands.
His fingers.
Guitarist's fingers.
Deft and deliberate.
Guitarist's fingers that sometimes subconsciously move on their own as he listens to music.
Forming first one chord and then gently relaxing into the next.
Following the music in his head.
I know every detail of his hands.
From the slender wrists with the defined bones, to the too short bitten nails.
From the crooked knuckle broken by a rouge cricket ball in his youth, to the strong blue vein running down the back of his left hand which reminds me of the tree I could see from my bedroom window growing up in my parents' house.
He has the hands of an old man.
That's what his father told him.
Too old for a boy.
Too experienced.
His hands seem to have already lived the life that lies ahead of him.
Already seen the future.
I wonder if they will continue to age?
Will they look the same when he reaches 30?
40?
60?
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Will he finally grow into the hands that he carries so close at all times, yet seems to give no thought at all?
It's like they live a life of their own. Twirling a pencil.
Stroking the soft fabric of the lounge cushion. Flicking the glowing cigarette over the ash tray. Sliding over the raised rubber buttons of the T.V. remote.
Does he see me staring?
Does he realise how intently I take in every movement of those fingers?
How I remember them circling me just as they do the remote buttons?
And do his fingers remember what they did to me?