Hands

A Story by katnisscat

"What do you look for in a girl?"

I shrug, and lean back. A lazy smirk rested casually on my lips. "I like their hands," I say, winking. Jonah rolls his eyes, and David chuckles, expecting something along those lines from me.

But it' not from me. Yeah, it's from the same strawberry blond teen I see in the mirror, who sports a leather jackets and who's flirtatious and charming. The crude remark is from Adam, a player in black. But it's not from me.

"I do like the hands. But not for that reason. I like them because they tell a story. The callouses on the finger tips from playing the guitar, or the bruised knuckles from a fight. The way the hands shake, a tell tale sign of adrenaline coursing through the veins, or when coated white velvet cloth to be taken gently and kissed by a prince.

But not only the hands. The way black ink streaks and slides along the skin is not only erotic and breathtaking, but it talks. It screams out agony and pain, or whispers soft promises kept for a lifetime. It flashes blinding color, or curves and bends as it creates a story. It might be a drunken mistake. Or it could be a journey that they can't bear to forget. But it is a part of them.

It's not just the curves and...skill of the woman, but the stories she brings along inside of her.

Of course, I don't dare say that at the bar full of second hand smoke and the smell of whiskey.