the memory of hands, part i

she rinsed the last plate and put it in the dish drain next to the sink, washed her hands free of their dishsoap softness, and brushed a stray piece of hair out of her face with the back of her wrist before reaching for the towel. she liked to sing while she washed the dishes, especially when her roommate wasn't home, but tonight her mind had been too busy. if there's really nothing there, why won't you get out of my head?

she sank into the sofa, finals over, nothing to do for almost a month, but preferring to spend her boredom here rather than in that uncomfortable place she could no longer call home. the clock on her roommate's stereo blinked unforgivingly, every second accusing them of being too lazy to reset it. the little LED light for "CD1" reminded her that it still wanted to play the album she had put in on a drunken impulse the other night. she wouldn't reset the clock, but she supposed she could give in to that much.

"bouncy-ball lovers exploding in colors as they lean down over the pier"...this artist was going to be big someday, or deserved it at least. nevermind that she'd unwittingly become the soundtrack to a bad lesbian movie, acted out in a sparsely-furnished college apartment with no cameras or production crew.

you were so impressed by my own voice, then, she remembered, although she would never understand its appeal, summoned in wide-awake exhaustion at an hour at which she was usually afraid to use it. that wasn't the only thing she couldn't understand...

head on hands, elbows on knees, she tried to replay the events of saturday night...a brilliant plan, thwarted by sobriety...what had or hadn't happened mattered less than how soft her hands had been in the moments between speaking...

...and was that all that was left of it? a memory of hands that had twined with her own, fingertips brushing palms in a ritual of hopeful reluctance that needed no rehearsal? more communicated in one instant of skin-on-skin than in three hours of uncertain words and silent hesitation?

and what would come of it now? if there had really been nothing, then nothing would change...but she couldn't help feeling like she'd lost a bet. the big one that could let you buy a new house and retire early, if only you didn't blow everything you've already won.

she had been convinced that she had done nothing wrong; she had tried so hard to do nothing wrong...

maybe, when you know without a doubt that something is right but you find yourself incapable of doing it anyway, it isn't really the right thing after all.

she turned off the stereo.