Beautiful Gloves Caress

He told me I had beautiful hands.

We met in a shop. La Beauté Rouge… The Red Beauty. I’d liken him to something of the sort. He was flushed with life, vibrant, rich. Red.

But though he presented a fierce aesthetic, he was elegant. He bore no barbs or snares. When we first met, he was even a little… nonchalant about it.

It began with a touch.

When we first met, he noticed me. But he made not a move to show it. He waited, hands folded, almost like he was patiently waiting for someone. Waiting for me.

I waited too. I feigned interest with a gentleman in beige leather and gold buckles. Though this other man wore a simple handsomeness about him, his hands were coarse against mine. Even if I hadn’t seen Red, I didn’t quite care for this other. I was just biding my time.

Even as someone else ahead of me tried to gain Red’s attention, I knew he would not accept her. His hands slipped from hers, they folded back into repose. And then it was just the two of us.

I greeted him with a smile. He returned it with his glow. It began with a touch. Not words. No exchange of compliments or wit. That flutter in the chest, a feather relieved and shedding of a weight that comes from not knowing: how love may feel.

He was smooth. He played with my fingertips, teasing. I let him slide further. Linked, intertwined. Together. Sheets of velvet that I could just grasp. He followed my motions so well, read me so well. He fit me. Completed me.

I had to have him.

He came home with me that day. Spent the entire evening together. That caress of velvet. Almost like blood. Running. Covering my skin. It warmed me. Smooth. Gliding.

Together we went everywhere. Both he and I could grasp the world.

And try we did. But as my fire grew, fueled by his passion, so did his complexion begin to wane.

I had noticed it too late. My lover had become sick. But like when we first met—he remained silent about it. He patiently waited. Once for me. Now with me. We continued our dance, entwined.

Could I be blamed? I was inspired. He was Prometheus, given me fire. To keep him by my side was to honor that which he had given me. That which we had built with our two hands.

So why did his flame begin to dwindle as mine continued to grow? My heart was aflame as his hands began to wither.

Whither would I be without those hands.

Even as the gray began to take his color, I refused to let him go. Even as other suitors attempted to draw me, to pull me away, I remained by my love.

Even as I began to gray.

As my color gave away.

We remained. Beautiful hands together.