I don't even remember her name. She was the girlfriend of a friend of mine in junior college. There was nothing between us, and never would be. But I still remember an incident.
I had given them a ride somewhere, I forget where. Probably off-campus to lunch. I was pulled up to a turnaround to let them out, but we were sitting, talking. He had already gotten out of the car, talking to someone else: the girlfriend was still in the back seat. I was turned in the drivers' seat, my hand resting on the headrest on the passenger side.
I have to tell you that for most of my adult life, the veins and tendons on the back of my hand have always been clearly visible. I don't mean to imply varicose veins or anything of the sort, but they stand out in gentle relief.
Apparently she just noticed this, and it caught her interest. On a whim, she reached forward and touched my hand with her finger, tracing the path of a vein. I stopped breathing: I felt a tingling all over, far out of proportion to its cause. I must have been blushing.
She noticed. With a hint of a smile, she asked, "Is something wrong?"
When I started breathing again, I admitted with an embarrassed grin, "You probably shouldn't do that."
Her eyes sparkled mischeviously. "This?" she said, as she stroked my hand again.
I tried not to gasp. "Yeah, that." I tried to sound casual, but I think I may have been a little breathy and unsteady. It was such a casual gesture, why was I reacting like this?
"Interesting," she observed. ("Interesting"? I can't see straight and she says "Interesting?" Does she know what this is doing to me?) "Hold out your hand."
It never occurred to me not to do it. Well, I wasn't thinking clearly. The fact that I still remember this, years later, is evidence of that. I extended my hand toward her, palm up. She cupped one hand under mine, to support it, and traced lines with the fingers of her other hand, as before, except now her fingers grazed the palm of my hand, not the back.
Good God almighty, I thought, but did not say out loud. At least I don't think I did. I hope I didn't. For a few moments I was staring, unseeing, at my own hand, overcome with the sensation of it. When I was able to focus on her face, she was smiling, amused.
Knowing. Yes, she knew exactly what it did to me.
If she'd laughed, or said any of a dozen things, I would have been mortified. She didn't. Something in her attitude told me that my reaction was nothing to be ashamed of or embarrassed by.
I remember being momentarily sorry that she was his girlfriend and not mine.
Then she got out of the car and joined her boyfriend, and I drove home. At least I think I did. I must have. I'm surprised I didn't hit a tree. My mind certainly wasn't on it.
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