It was the hand criss crossed with lines, tanned which gripped at her waist. The hand which pulled her through the mass of sweaty bodies at the station.The hand which ran up her thigh and made her feel the fire. Which pulled her down and prodded her on. Which tugged at her hair and dug into her skin, then rubbed her back and encircled around her.
The hand that slid out from under her and buttoned up the jacket. And the hand which put forth a thousand. The hand which traced her cheekbones and tapped her nose. The hand which turned the knob and swung out. Perhaps to return some day, not to hand a thousand. But to encircle again and never pull back.