We were watching a movie together on his couch. My shoulders were gently tucked into the side of his body and my gaze drifted from the screen to my right arm where his hand curled around my skin. His hands fascinated me more than anything else, and they still do.

His hands were dry and extremely calloused. From many winters of riding in harsh weather and many summers of not stopping until sunrise, his hands held worn-down memories of every one of his adventures. They were not soft. They had a hard, rough exterior but I always thought that disguise was quite see through.

His hands always had good intentions. When I nervously chewed my fingers, they would reach up and hold mine gently until the thought of the habit had completely vanished from my mind and only he was left. He drew me intricate pictures of my favorite places with those hands, he baked me cherry pies and picked up a heart shaped rock for my collection. His hands were so kind to me. His thumb rubbed my arm, gently reminding me that he’s there and that he cares. I think a lot of people have not been there for him when he needed it, and he is so cautious to make sure I know that he would always be there for me. Well, for a while at least, until the movie ended for sure.

But his hands were also impulsive. With a bottle in his possession he’d show up drunk and relighting cigarette after cigarette was a marathon he never got tired of running. But his impulses were sometimes crazy. He fought against many and stole more than the hearts of frehman girls with blue hair. I think his hands became violent with those in whom he saw reflections of the flaws he hated in himself. He took what he wanted, be it money from the younger boys he pushed around, or the trust of the girl sitting in his bed. He took things with no intentions of giving them back. Then again, the impulses could also be stupendous. When he had a set of handlebars in his grasp, he could go anywhere he could practically fly. And when I didn’t believe there was a train coming, he reached out and pulled me back in time. His impulses made him hard to hold on to, but he was the only one I would ever let hold me.

His hands weren’t perfect, they had seen better days for sure. But they’re the kind of hands that you want to see holding a mug full of black coffee across the breakfast table on a sunny morning. They’re the kind of hands that make you smile silly when they’re flying around in the air narrating a story. You can picture them running their fingers down the worn spines of old books or furiously sketching, always so serious. They’re the last of his touch you’d feel after a hug pulls away and the connecting limbs unwind leaving only the hands. His hands told his story, it was all written out on the palms. Most people had not taken the time to look at them because his hands were either accelerating towards their jaw, or because they were gently stroking their hair while he spoke loving words. He kept his hands either skillfully hidden or moving too fast to pin down. I hadn’t even noticed until that day. Until then I had been to caught up in his eyes which never gave away anything. His deep brown eyes, were a whole other story.