Calloused Love

His hands opened my eyes to the whole world. When I was younger, I thought callouses could only form on feet because I was a soccer player and that was all I knew. But when I touched his hands for the first time and I felt the rough skin from his callouses, I felt my world tremble beneath my feet. I recalled pedicurists trying to scrape off my callouses and wondered if anyone had ever thought to do the same to his. I wondered if he had ever looked at them and wished they weren’t there, for any reason. He told me how he got them, explaining that he lifted weights at the gym often. When he was younger, he was “obese, like, so fat,” so now the gym was his life. Knowing this fact made me somehow love them more. He took my hand in his and rubbed my fingers over them, asking me if I minded them. My wide eyes and curled lips must have told a different tale, because he smiled at me, not needing me to utter any words.

His hands never stopped moving. When he would hold my hand, he had this cute tick. His thumb rubbed over the top of my hand, grazing it back and forth. I never did quite know if he was doing it on purpose or if it was subconscious for him, but boy, did I love it. I could lay down for hours on end in his arms, because that tick was the best lullaby I had ever known. The rhythm of the swish and swoosh of his thumb rubbing against my hand reminded me of the waves greeting and bidding farewell to the shore that I missed so much from my hometown. In the same way that I used to close my eyes on the swings and imagine being on an airplane, I could close my eyes in his arms and imagine floating in the ocean for the rest of forever.

His hands fit around mine as if they were gloves made, surely, for only me. This was fitting, because I swear his hands were enough to keep me warm on any winter night. He had this tight grip that made me feel that he’d never let go of me, even if he physically did.

His hands had this way of making me feel such cliché things, and I had never experienced this. I was grossed out for being so cliche, but I also was absorbed in his love. On any given day he could take my hand and send an electric shock up my entire arm. It would wake up the emotions in me, igniting a reaction so vivid that my body didn’t know what to do with it.

His hands were bigger than mine, and I loved pressing my small palm up against his. I would do it as if doing so allowed me to see his heart. I would giggle at the thought of this form of intimacy. This intimacy unique to only us. Because when I thought of it, I knew that no two people would ever again have the hands that we do. We would be forever bonded by callouses and soft skin and his thumb tick. You see, for me, holding his hand was as unique as a fingerprint, and boy, did that fuck me up. How was I supposed to deal with the absurdity of being so close to one person, so connected with one person?

His hands were the most special hands of my whole life. I dated again after him. I held hands with other boys after him. But when I did, I couldn’t see their hearts as I pressed palm to palm. I couldn’t sit there holding hands contemplating the science behind how someone could have callouses all over their hand but have the softest skin imaginable. After his hands, there were no others that ever made me fall in love again. After him, there were no others that ever made me fall in love again.