His hands are big, but not in a weird way. They're big like a man's hands should be. He's got wide, long fingers and broad palms. They're the kind of hands you want to hold when it's cold outside, because you know they'll keep your whole body warm. They're strong. Rough and soft at the same time. His fingernails are square and always short, but I can't tell if he bites them or not.

That one time, in my bed, those hands were around my waist. They were pulling me closer to him and into my hair he asked, "Do you think we could ever be together?" My fingers paused on his zipper and I asked, "Is that something you want?" His left hand crept up my shirt. He whispered, "Yeah."

At some point, my hands were up against the wall with my long blue fingernails trying to dig into the paint. I said, "Don't you think we should talk about that when you're sober?" By then, his hands were on my naked hips helping to rock them and he replied with, "I guess so."