His hands were soft and gentle. It was one of those memories that I keep trying to get back. They were so soft; they are because he washes his hands so much. I know these stupid things. I notice them. It's kind of why I'm so interested in him. His soft hands are my favourite. They are so much  bigger than mine. It's weird. Weird how much I notice a similarity in how men's hands describe some much of who they are. His describe him perfect. I'll never be able to deny the feeling he's always given me. Whether he's looking at me in that way I can't ever describe. Or when he waits for me to finish my cigarette while everyone else wanders back inside. He's that rare best friend that I'll always need. And I'll never be able to get that twisted feeling in my guts that his stupid soft hands give me. He waited too long to figure me out.